


Always

by AnxiousBich



Series: Always Universe [1]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Codependency, Eddie is a lil bit of a stoner, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Frottage, Grinding, Homophobic Language, I'M JUST BEING CAUTIOUS, Implied/Referenced Antisemitism, Implied/Referenced Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Marijuana, Multi, OT7, Panic Attacks, Pennywise Is Actually Dead, Please Read The Tags Before Each Chapter To Avoid Triggering Material, Polyamory, Recreational Drug Use, THE TAGS ARE WORSE THAN THE CONTENT, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Behavior, body issues, mentions of divorce, no memory loss, non-graphic sexualization of a minor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 02:24:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12997773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnxiousBich/pseuds/AnxiousBich
Summary: Eddie clutches his friends tightly to him and a thought, powerful and fierce, fills his entire being.‘We’ll always be together. Always.’And he knows in that moment that God himself couldn't stop him from keeping that silent promise.





	1. The Start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really bad at tagging. Tags will change based on what comes up which is why they're so sparse right now. I'll update them chapter by chapter so I don't accidentally miss anything, keep an eye out for it, especially if you have triggers!
> 
> I only seem to post things that are self-indulgent and when I'm not being a perfectionist lmao. 
> 
> This is basically book canon, movie aesthetic/time, fanon, headcanon, and whatever I want put into a blender and turned to full blast. I don't even know.

When they pull themselves out of the sewers, stinking and disgusting, but victorious, there’s no celebration. Stan looks far off like he’s not quite inside his own body while Beverly is staring down at where her blouse is still torn, horror in her eyes. Bill looks broken in a way he hadn't allowed himself to be during the last few weeks. Tears are sliding through the blood and dirt on his face leaving behind clean tracks and stinging the welt on his cheek from Bowers’ rock while his body curls in on itself. Richie is quiet, he wants to speak but his lips are clamped shut tight. Mike has his arms wrapped around himself, his eyes shifty and afraid, still expecting something to happen. Ben looks as if he isn't sure where he is. To everyone’s surprise, it's Eddie who is the most put together, holding his cast close to his chest, covered in sewage and blood.

            It’s not like when he was in the hospital, when something _else_ , ancient and powerful, had stolen his voice to blackmail his mother into backing off of his friends. Whatever magic had been coursing through their bodies was gone, dissipating the moment the sun had touched their skin. He glances at the place they’d crawled from and knows deep inside if he went back in again, he’d die, lost and unable to find his way out. It leaves a sense of reassurance and deep loneliness, bitter sweet with the knowledge that whatever this was is finally over, but that it had also created a cavernous distance between them all. Their lifelines have been severed from one another and now they’re all adrift.

            Instead of leaving Eddie destitute, he feels courage that he’s never felt before. It reminds him of when he’d been laid out on the concrete with his arm in blinding pain while he laughed, sirens wailing, and the Bowers Gang’s pounding feet retreating, giddy with the realization that he could live inside the pain, it didn't mean he was going to _die_. When he looks at his friends who had seemed so much _bigger_ than him, better in every conceivable way, practically collapsing in on themselves, he doesn't know what he’s feeling.

And Bill, _Big Bill_ , who Eddie was ready to _die_ for, who seemed like he could do anything with a stiff upper lip and a fire as bright as his hair in his eyes, looks like he might blow away in the wind. And Eddie feels that fucked up giddiness again.

He nearly punches himself in the face with his cast in his hurry to cover his mouth. He clamps his good hand around his mouth but his shoulders start to shake and he bites his lip tightly, his eyes stinging with the effort. This draws the attention of Richie and Bev. They assume his cool facade has finally cracked, and they want to reach out and comfort him, but the cavern is too large, so they stay rooted in place, watching Eddie with worried eyes.

            Then Eddie starts _giggling_. He realizes absently that his casted arm is throbbing painfully, there’s blood oozing down his cheek from where a rock had nicked him, and he’s drawn the attention of his other friends. He starts laughing harder, full bodied now. There’s nothing manic about it, no high pitched crazy lilt, it sounds joyful and childish, like he’s heard the funniest joke in the world and nothing will ever compare, but his friends are horrified, certain they’re watching their friend slip into madness.

            Eddie peeks through his watery eyes and sees this, the concern and worry etched into the pale faces of his best friends, clarity now in their eyes. He has to shut his eyes when he feels his stomach cramp with the force of his laughter. He crouches down with his butt hovering over the rain muddied ground, folding over his arms while he tries to get his laughter under control. He feels someone crouch down beside him and nearly jumps when they touch the back of his neck with shaky fingers. Someone has reached over the gap.

            He looks up, still shaking with barely contained giggles and locks eyes with Stan. His eyes are still haunted but he’s scanning Eddie’s face with deep focus, his brows drawn together tightly, searching for something there. His grip on Eddie’s nape is painfully tight. Eddie doesn't know if Stan finds what he’s looking for because Eddie lets himself tilt forward until his knees are digging into the thick mud and he throws his arms around Stan’s neck, unintentionally knocking Stan on the side of the head with his cast. He pulls him into a tight hug and breathlessly giggles apologies into Stan’s dirty, slightly flattened, corkscrew curls. Stan catches Eddie instinctively around the middle, attempting to keep his balance but only ends up with a rock digging into his hip and his ass soaked in mud.

            “Eddie…,” Stan finally finds his voice, sounding deeply concerned and afraid.

            “We’re alive,” Eddie says when he’s finally able to get his laughter under control. He feels Stan’s breath hitch where their chests are pressing tightly together. He thinks about offering the aspirator in his back pocket and that makes more laughter bubble up in his chest. Stan’s arms suddenly become a vice around his body, pulling Eddie fully into his lap.

Stan instantly starts sobbing loud and wet into Eddie's shoulder. Eddie presses his nose into Stan’s cheek bone in return. His nostrils burn from the stink, but he’s numb to it now, and presses his forehead to the boy’s temple affectionately. He feels two more presences at his sides and then the boys are being wrapped up in a tight hug by four lanky arms. Then there’s someone at his back, pressing their cheek to his shoulder blade tightly. Strong arms snake between his and Stan’s abdomens, hugging him tightly, molding their chest to his back. He feels someone else press in behind Stan and a pudgy cheek sinks against his uninjured forearm where it’s resting against Stan’s filthy button up.

            He finally lifts his head, jostling where Richie had stuffed his face between Stan’s shoulder and Eddie’s upper arm. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a head of ginger hair pressed tightly to Stan’s other shoulder. When he looks up, its only Bill standing before him and he knows now its Mike’s warm breath brushing the small hairs at the back of his neck.

Bill looks stricken and lost, the urge to run clear in his eyes. He looks weak and frightened and _ashamed_. Eddie’s expression grows hard, the giggle fit fully in its grave, and he reaches out silently with his casted arm in offering. He doesn't say anything, just waits while his already wet shirt and skin become further soaked with the tears and snot of his friends. His expression doesn't judge and he doesn't push. He feels a deep fear that if Bill runs they’ll never see him again, but Eddie can’t push him, can’t blame him for it.

His body jostles with the force of Stan’s next wail, Stan’s breath shudders in a way that sounds painful. He takes three more deep breaths before a word finally forms out of his broken noises.  
            “Bill!” he hiccups into Eddie’s shoulder, his arms around Eddie’s waist squeezing the air out of his lungs. Eddie grits his teeth a little but doesn't complain.

Bill bolts forward, slipping in the mud, and colliding painfully into Stan’s back where he presses in beside Ben and Richie. They immediately draw him in with hands on his back and in his hair. Eddie wraps his casted arm awkwardly around Bill’s back and presses his barely mobile fingers into the back of Bill’s neck firmly.

Stan’s sobs become quieter, soft whimpering. Eddie is suddenly aware of Richie’s lips moving against his arm, whispering something to Stan that he can’t really make out.

For a frightening moment, Eddie wonders if the magic _is_ actually gone because a thought, powerful and fierce, fills him so completely that he feels it must be cosmic intervention again. It shakes him to his core. He thinks of his mother trying to keep them apart, that monster trying to kill them, Bowers pelting rocks with murderous intent, the tear in Beverly’s blouse, Mike’s enraged tear tracked face while he yelled at Bowers for murdering his dog. He presses his face against Richie’s messy black hair and closes his eyes tight.

_‘We’ll always be together. Always.’_

And in that moment he knows God himself couldn't stop him from keeping that silent promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: I have a Tumblr now! Check it out and hit me up! https://www.tumblr.com/blog/anxiousbich
> 
> This chapter is brief, just an establishing thing, but I hope you enjoyed. Please comment! (And please don't be rude <3). I'm gonna try to space the chapters out a little bit.
> 
> Sorry for the overuse of commas, italics, and bad use of writing techniques.
> 
> Really I should spend more time fixing it up, but *shrug* I have no self control.


	2. Snags (Beverly)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plan was to wait at least a few days between posting chapters so I have a semi consistent flow but I really really wanna get to the good stuff and I have no self control *Dabs*

There are snags. Of course there are. Beverly is the first. Only a few weeks into the new school year, while they’re all still healing and sporting dark circles under their eyes, Beverly tells them the news. In a sad quiet voice that fills their clubhouse, she says that her mother wants to take her to live with her aunt while her mother figures out where they should settle now that she's leaving Beverly’s father. Her friends look like they've been physically struck. They’re barely coping with the nightmares and the ever present paranoia as it is, and losing one of their own would be a devastating blow.

Ben and Bill wrap a comforting arm around her shoulders and waist, respectively, looking resigned. When Eddie looks around the small circle they had formed in the comfort of their makeshift home away from home, he sees matching resignation in the slump of Richie’s shoulders and the far off looks in Mike and Stan’s eyes. Eddie can feel his heart pounding and his lungs constricting, his hand twitches instinctively towards his back pocket and stalls when he realizes his aspirator isn't there, he's been making a conscious effort to leave it at home.

_'Always. Always. **Always**.'_

Eddie lurches to his feet so suddenly the group jumps in surprise. Beverly turns watery eyes on him, confusion written all over her face. Eddie clenches his fists at his sides and drags himself up the ladder at record speed. He can hear his friends calling after him and two sets of feet scrambling up the ladder behind him.

Richie and Mike are yelling behind him but Eddie is already on his bike and flying down the road. A voice that sounds like his mother's begs him to slow down. He could get hit by a car or run over a big rock and fly over his handlebars. He bikes faster.

He arrives at Beverly’s apartment, panting and sweaty. He can hear a dog barking in the distance and his mother is once again in his head yelling ‘ _Eddie-Bear, this is a bad neighborhood, no place for children, you could get mugged or **worse**!’_ He drops his bike on the lawn and approaches the list of buzzers, searching for the one labeled 'Marsh'. He’s never done this before, only having been here one other time when he and his friends had scrubbed Beverly's bathroom of blood that no one else could see. He shivers and presses the buzzer before he can lose his nerve.

A second too late he wonders what he’ll do if it’s her father who answers, but he starts to breathe again when an annoyed feminine voice asks him who he is and what he wants.

He doesn't know how he does it. He remembers sitting at a worn wooden table with a mug of hot tea in front of him while across the table a woman, one he’s never met but who's achingly familiar anyway with fiery red hair that's littered with gray strands and the upturn of her nose, stares at him curiously. He also remembers talking more than he’s ever talked to an adult in his entire life.

He had been taught that when it came to adults, children were seen and not heard, but desperation and the image of Beverly’s deep hazel eyes filling with tears burned into his brain kept the words pouring out. He thinks he tells her how much her daughter means to all of them, how much they need each other to deal with all they’d been through, he doesn't know, but by the end he’s just shaking and crying into his cold untouched mug of tea and quietly begging her not to take Beverly away from them, from _him_.

He doesn't know how he does it but a few days later when Eddie sees Bev again, her smile is blinding while she excitedly explains to the group that her mother had spoken to Bev's aunt and they’d made a plan to move into a recently vacated house that was up for rent for dirt cheap. Her aunt wasn't too attached to her current living situation and they agreed it might do more harm than good to add an extreme change on top of the already mounting list of traumas. Eddie stares at her in shocked silence while his other friends swarm her.

_‘You did it.’_

_‘But the're’s no way. Adults don’t listen to kids, don’t be so fucking conceited.’_

_‘But she’s staying! She’s staying!’_

_‘Don’t pat yourself on the back for it, dipshit.’_

This train of thought just keeps swirling around his head until he’s physically pulled from it by a tight hug. He feels long hair brush his face and he smells familiar flowery shampoo.

“Thank you,” Beverly whispers into his ear.

He wants to tell her, ‘No, it wasn't me’, but then he thinks about how close they had been to losing her forever and just wraps his arms around her waist tightly and squeezes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me a damn comment, I thrive on validation from strangers *Dabs more aggressively* 
> 
> I don't know if I should tag this as Eddie-Centric because it sort of is but also sort of isn't. Hmmm.


	3. Snags (Bill)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings for this one: Non-graphic sexualization of a minor, body issues, unhealthy behavior as a result of codependency, divorce. I'm not sure how to word these but I hope these are good enough.
> 
> Posting two chapters in 1 day? Yep. No self control.

            Beverly’s aunt is… nice enough. She’s nothing compared to Beverly’s father, and Beverly’s relationship with her mother has improved since she moved in, so _generally_ its been good. But her aunt eyes the boys warily when she sees them around town and makes a point of buying Beverly better fitting clothes, more _modest_. Beverly _hates_ the way her aunt looks at her friends but she hates the stares she’s begun to receive even more as her body begins to fill out without her permission. High school boys and adult men alike staring at her like she's a woman despite only being a few weeks into 12. It fills her with a disgust that makes her want to scrub her skin raw, so she accepts the new outfits gratefully and grits her teeth against the annoyance she feels when her aunt not so subtly suggests meeting some of the nice _girls_ in town.

            “Its fine for now, but there comes an age when spending all your free time with a group of boys becomes _inappropriate_ and _unladylike_.” She hates those words too and in those moments, she wants nothing more than to hack up the spit at the back of her throat and show just how _unladylike_ she is.

            The boys give her concerned looks when she’s sweating her damn tits off but keeps her boxy long sleeved blouses on and wears jeans even when the summer heat rolls back around, only feeling comfortable enough to reveal the spaghetti strap tank she usually wears underneath when she’s safely behind closed doors with the only boys she trusts not to make her feel dirty.

            She doesn't even notice it’s made her personality more modest too until a day in the Barrens that’s been burned into her brain. She’s sitting in the barrens with Mike and Richie in her tank top and her capris rolled to above her knees. Her too-hot blue turtle neck is discarded in the dirt while she laughs _hard_ , tears streaming down her face and dirt under her finger nails for the first time in _months_ , with her face mashed into Mike’s shoulder. Richie holds two middle fingers up from where he’s still lying on his back on the ground after taking a pretty spectacular fall from slipping on a fucking _leaf_. She can feel where her filled out chest, which now requires a real bra with wire and everything, is pressing into Mike’s arm that’s shaking with breathless laughter, but she doesn't _care_ because when they make eye contact, his eyes don’t flick down the front of her shirt to catch a glimpse of her cleavage, he just starts laughing harder.

            She’s certain the image of Richie’s comically shocked expression before he’d fallen had just flickered behind his eyes because she saw the same thing and now she's nearly sobbing. She can hear footsteps but she’s sure it’s one of the others finally arriving.

            “W-Whu-What’s so funny?” Bill asks, a smile in his voice.

            “Nothing!” Richie blurts out instantly, now up and sitting cross legged on the damn leaf. When Mike and Beverly don’t stop their laughing, Richie, in his haste to cover up his embarrassment, slips into a choppy accent that doesn't land very close to anything resembling an existing nationality, “Don’ embarrass me in fron’ a Ol’ Bill’s fine new friend.”

            Beverly finally looks up at this, while Mike’s laughter is renewed by Richie’s horrible accent. Her own laughter dies in her throat when she spots someone she doesn't recognize, a boy a year or two older than them, standing next to Bill. It’s quick, but she catches his eyes slipping upward before making eye contact with her and the heat there makes her stomach drop nauseatingly. The familiar feeling of her skin crawling and being suddenly too tight, too _much_ , overtakes her and she’s quickly snatching her turtle neck up and sliding it over her head and fixing the cuffs of her pants. She suddenly wishes she’d worn her jeans instead.

            Too late she prays she hasn't drawn attention to herself. Only Mike, who’s gotten his laughter under control, gives her a questioning look. She gives him a meek smile, so unlike the carefree laughter she’d been experiencing moments before, and shrugs. “Cold,” she lies quietly while Bill stutters his way through an introduction of his partner from speech therapy.

            Mike just nods and silently wraps an arm around her shoulder and pulls her against his side. She’s so overheated from her attire and Mike’s body heat she thinks she might just melt away, but she presses closer to him anyways, the tightness of her skin receding marginally. She’s quieter now, barely speaking up while the stranger whose name she doesn't even remember is in their group. She doesn't know if anyone else notices, but she knows Richie has, because he’s working harder than usual to make her laugh.

            After the 3rd ‘Beep Beep’ in 10 minutes, Bill laughs and tells him, “St-Stop showing off for St-Stuh-Steve.”

            “What can I say, sometimes I need a new audience, gonna go stale if all I have to work with are you losers,” Richie replies easily with a grin. But Bev knows it’s for her. She can see it in the way his eyes linger on her after every crack, looking for a laugh. At one point he even stands up to greet Stan obnoxiously and promptly falls again, nearly bringing the new arrival down with him. His fall is exaggerated and he yelps too loudly sounding like a kicked dog and the boys are immediately cracking up, except Stan who’s helping Richie to his feet, griping at him for being an idiot all the while.

            Beverly kind of just wants to cry and hug Richie and kiss his stupid freckled face. When Richie finally makes it to his feet and slips into a borderline offensive Mexican accent with his arm wrapped around Stan’s shoulder, he subtly glances his magnified eyes in Beverly’s direction while the others are too distracted with their laughter.

            She’s not laughing but her smile is big and she hopes her eyes aren't too wet. Whatever he sees on her face makes his words trip in his mouth and the tips of his ears go red.

            Richie finally let’s go of Stan and Beverly is fucking _ecstatic_ when he sits down beside her while Stan takes a seat on Bill’s other side, introducing himself to Steve and apologizing for Richie. Richie snorts and snarks something back, but Bev doesn't hear it because she’s focusing on being as invisible as possible while she slides the hand closest to Richie over the small gap between them and gently hooks her index and middle finger into one of the belt loops of his khaki cargo shorts and just holds it.

            She wants to be holding his hand, feel the callouses on his perpetually bandaged fingers on the back of her own scarred hand while their palms become disgustingly, uncomfortably, sweaty from the heat, but there’s a stranger here and she’s already putting a target on her back by being tucked under Mike’s heavy arm. So she compromises and quietly hopes he understands the gesture for what it is.

            Even though Beverly still hasn't broken out of her withdrawn behavior, Richie dials it back, not wanting to dislodge her grip.

            Steve finally leaves, just as Eddie, with a board game under his arm and Ben at his side, comes into the clearing. He says he’s got to be home for lunch but he’s shooting Eddie these looks that Beverly doesn't understand, or like, and she quietly hopes Bill doesn't bring him around again. The moment he’s out of sight she’s tearing the turtle neck back off, dislodging Mike’s arm and nearly elbowing Richie in the face in her haste. She feels drenched in sweat and her hair is sticking to her uncomfortably. She pulls her hair up into a high pony tail so it just brushes her now exposed upper back.

            The boys, minus Eddie who’s silently setting up his game of Life, are staring at her with that concerned look they're always giving her. She almost wants to put it _back_ on when a familiar voice in her head says in a falsely gentle way, _‘I worry about you, Bevvie.’_

            But then Eddie is silently offering his large plastic water bottle over Richie’s lap, still not looking at her while he places a pile of cards carefully on the board. She eyes the long khakis he’s sporting, much too long for this heat, and feels a weird kinship, a connection she wishes they didn't have, and takes the bottle without question, tilting her head back and taking great big gulps that she nearly chokes on. Eddie doesn't mention germs or backwash when she hands it back to him. Richie’s eyes track between the two with too much intelligence behind the gaze.

            They pick their cars and Beverly confidently slips her palm into Richie’s who squeezes her hand fiercely before letting his grip slacken to something more comfortable. None of the others comment or really take too much notice. She smiles and bumps her shoulder with his.

            “I get first roll!” she calls, snatching up the dice with a mischievous grin when Stan sputters about how they should do rock-paper-scissors to see who goes first. She doesn't let go of Richie’s hand even when her palm gets sticky and gross. He doesn't let go even while he animatedly waves his free hand around along with his shtick.

            They don’t let go until they’re packing up Eddie’s game and, without preamble, Bill says, “M-Mu-Muh-My p-p-puh-parents want to leave town.”

            Ben drops the tiny plastic figurines he’d been packing away with a clatter and Bev gasps and covers her mouth in horror. Bill wipes the spit that had flung out of his mouth while he’d struggled his way through the sentence with the back of his hand. He’s not meeting their eyes. Stan looks green around the edges and Eddie’s eyes are practically pin pricks. Mike’s arms are wrapped around his own stomach, like he’s physically holding himself together.

            While she stares at their fearless leader slumping in on himself, she gets the inexplicable urge to hide him away somewhere. She imagines him living in their club house while they sneak him food and entertainment and ‘Missing’ posters with his face start showing up around town, and his baby face grows one of those bushy beards people living on deserted islands always have. It's such a ridiculous thought it's almost funny, except that it isn't. It just isn't.

            She chances a look to her right, expecting to see Eddie springing to his feet like that day in the club house. But he’s frozen solid and his chin is fluttering while his throat works fruitlessly to swallow whatever lump has formed there.

            It’s out of her peripheral that she spots Richie’s expression. It’s frightening what she see there. There’s _rage_ etched into his usually grinning face. His lip is pulled back in a snarl while his teeth are clenched tightly, his crooked buck teeth poking out from behind his lips. There are two high splotchy spots of color on his cheeks and his eyes are blazing, made all the more frightening by the way his glasses magnify them. His fists are clenched tightly in his lap and they’re shaking.

            She sees the potential energy in his muscles before he’s springing to his feet.

            “That is _BULLSHIT_!” he yells with such ferocity, they all flinch and recoil.

            “W-Well there’s n-nuh-nothing you c-can do about i-it!” Bill yells back, mirroring his friend’s unexpected anger with his own, a tear sliding down his face.

            Richie grows very still and his lips form a hard line, something dark living in his eyes. “We’ll see about that,” he says ominously, voice disturbingly quiet, but it carries to them just as easily as if he’d yelled in the silence. He turns and storms off, heading for his bike only a few feet away. They sit in the resulting quiet for a few minutes more, uncertain of what to do. So they simply say their goodbyes before parting ways without so much as a pat on the shoulder shared between them.

            They didn't see much of Richie for a few days. When they did, he acted like his normal self for the most part, but more often than not he’d get this far away look in his eye until Eddie subtly elbowed him in the side. Beverly notices she’d often find him alone with Eddie, their heads bowed close while they whispered urgently to each other. She’d see that eerie stillness in Richie’s body while Eddie appeared agitated, a deep crease in his brow and panic in his eyes. When Eddie would catch her eye, he’d immediately nudge Richie’s foot with his own and Richie would spin around with a grin already plastered on his face.

            She doesn't know what to do with it. She wants to worry and ask what he has planned but ever since Bill’s big announcement she feels hollowed out, like she might be a ghost. Mike tries to reassure them that they still have a lot of time before anything goes into motion and they should make the most of it, but none of them can find it in themselves to get out of their funk while Richie and Eddie continue to act strangely.

            It all comes to a head when she receives a frantic phone call in the middle of the night. Her mother and aunt are furious, asking why a boy is calling her so late, but all she can think about is Bill’s watery tone while he begged her to meet at the Barrens in ten minutes before he hung up. Her heart is racing and she’s trying to figure out how she’s going to do this.

            She schools her expression and looks apologetic, lying easily that there was a big test tomorrow and Bill was freaking out because he’d forgotten his notes and was hoping she’d have hers. She’d told him she was getting ready for bed so she couldn't help him. They seemed placated by this, so Beverly heads for her bathroom at a sedated pace and goes through her nightly routine before stepping into her room, calling a quiet “Goodnight” down the hall, and closing the door gently behind her.

            She lays in her bed for a few tense minutes, listening for her aunt and mother’s doors closing before she’s throwing on Stan’s hoodie. He had left it at Bill’s house weeks ago and she’d swiped it on her way out the door. She mainly wore it when it got chilly at school and he never asked for it back. She zips it up hastily over her bra-less chest and heads for her window. She opens it as quickly and quietly as possible and shuts it behind her when she slips out. She tiptoes down the fire escape as quick as she can. She bites her lip tightly to hold in a cry of fear when her foot slips in her haste.

            She digs her bike out from its hiding spot and bolts into the night. Her heart is pounding with fear and adrenaline and her calves are burning. When she draws near, she can already see six figures waiting. She’s late.

            When she rolls into the clearing, she spots Ben with his arm wrapped tight around Bill’s shoulders, while Mike has a firm hand on the back of Bill’s neck, whispering soothing words against the tip of Bill’s ear. Once she gets close she can see that Bill is shaking and sobbing. Stan stands nearby looking uncertain and stiff. Further off from him are Richie and Eddie. Eddie looks stricken and like he’s having trouble getting air into his lungs, but what absolutely terrifies Beverly is the emotionless expression on Richie’s face. It shakes her to her core.

            She sees his head begin to turn in her direction and she quickly averts her eyes, focusing back on Bill, feeling that if they locked eyes in that moment, something important would be lost between them. She hurries over to Bill, grabbing his puffy wet face in her hands as gently as possible.

            “Bill,” she says, trying to make her voice as soothing as possible but it shakes in the wake of his anguish. “Shhh, hey, tell us what’s wrong. _Please_.”

            She can feel Stan at her elbow now, quietly echoing her desperate plea. Bill screws his eyes shut and breathes in deeply, trying to gain some composure.

            “D-Du-Duh-Duh,” Bill’s face became one of frustration and pain and he grips his auburn hair roughly and tugs. Before she can react, Stan’s hand shoots out and covers Bill’s fingers with his own, gently untangling the smaller appendages from their painful hold on Bill’s scalp. He tugs Bill’s hand away and grips it tight.

            “Divorce!” Bill finally gets out, taking a gasping breath, the rock that had been lodged in his throat coming loose. “They’re getting a divorce!” The group stare at him in shocked silence. “I h-huh-heard them f-f-fuh-fighting, sh-she found l-l-luh-lipstick on h-h-his shirt,” he struggles to get out, looking lost.

            She hears a hiss, a noise she hasn't heard in a while, as Eddie takes a puff of his aspirator. She forces herself to keep her eyes on Bill even as something altogether horrifying takes root in her mind.

            Beverly ignores the spittle that had flown out of Bill’s mouth straight onto her face and instead reaches up with the sleeve of Stan’s oversized hoodie and begins gently wiping the tears, snot, and lastly, the spit off his face. She put her chilly hands back on his now drier overheated face. She rubs her thumbs along the puffy area under his eyes. She can hear Ben and Mike, now both pressed into Bill’s sides, telling him everything would be okay. Stan has Bill’s hand in both of his, massaging circles into the back of it.

            She tilts his head down and presses a firm kiss to his forehead, her nose digging uncomfortably into his hairline. She moves his head again so she can look him in the eyes, her expression hard.

            “You are going to be okay Bill Denbrough,” she tells him firmly, her voice leaving no room for argument. She raises her brows when he doesn't respond and he gives a shaky nod. She gives a firm nod back. She slides her hands down his cheeks to his neck and finally his shoulders where her finger tips brush Ben and Mike’s arms. “Can he stay with one of you?” she asks for him.

            “Yeah,” Ben speaks up quickly, his expression determined. “Yeah, he can stay with me.” Beverly gives Ben a grateful smile, making him blush pink.

            “I’ll walk with you,” Stan says when Ben begins to steer a now silent sniffling Bill towards their discarded bikes, following after them. Mike watches them go and scrubs a hand down his face.

            “I gotta get going,” he sighs, looking regretfully at the trio’s retreating figures, “My folks are going to murder me… I sort of bolted on them.” Beverly feels like a coward for her own sneak out. Mike turns to her with a tired smile and hugs her tightly. “Goodnight, Bev,” he tells her quietly and heads for his bike. She watches them all go.

            The moment they’re out of sight, she feels her heart begin to race and her shoulders tense. She slowly turns her eyes on the members of the Loser’s Club who have gone almost completely unnoticed. She regrets it immediately. Eddie looks broken and when she makes eye contact with him, his eyes darken even further with fear and guilt. She quickly turns her head away, speed walking towards her bike, still unable to look at Richie.

            There’s something that’s clicking into place and on the bike ride home she does everything she can to rip the puzzle pieces apart, because it’s impossible, _impossible_ , **_impossible_**. It becomes difficult to do with the final image of her friends burned into her retinas. Eddie, nothing but a distant figure as she biked away, on his knees and curled in on himself, with Richie kneeling in front of him with a hand on his back. She told herself that the distant echoing sound of someone wailing was just her mind playing tricks on her.

            A few weeks later Bill moves out of his house and into a much smaller one a few blocks over with his mom. With the divorce lawyers and the splitting of finances, they can’t afford a big move. His dad goes to stay with his brother for a little while. The Losers help Bill through it anyway they can.

            Richie begins to act more like himself, working hard to lift the tension whenever possible. Every joke sounds like a beg for forgiveness but Bev thinks she’s the only one who hears it. Eddie practically waits on Bill hand and foot the entire time, dark circles under his eyes that had begun to fade were now back full force. She pushes it all to the back of her mind and quietly hopes no one else notices and wishes she hadn't.

            She finds Richie behind the PE shed, their usual spot, with a lit cigarette that seems to just be burning away between his fingers while he stares down at his feet with a haunted look to him. She slips in beside him and gently takes the cigarette from his loose fingers and takes a slow drag, letting the familiar burn soothe her, before holding it to his lips rather than giving it back to him. He hesitates then gently holds her thin wrist while he takes a deep drag then releases it, letting the smoke swirl in the air in front of him.

            She watches him and realizes with a strange clarity that he was like some sort of jungle cat, like the tiger in the bamboo, beautiful and deadly. But she remembers from some stupid documentary her aunt had been watching that tigers were usually solitary creatures.

            She moves in closer and wraps an arm around his waist, pressing her forehead to the side of his head, feeling the dark curls tickle her nose and cheek, while she lets the mostly burnt down cigarette fall from her hand. She reaches her now empty hand up to cup the cheek opposite the one she's pressed against, holding him firmly to her. His body is shaking under her hands and she feels wetness pooling in the area where the curve between her thumb and index finger are pressed to Richie’s cheek.

            She realizes, as she’s pressing kiss after kiss into the weeping boy’s hair, that Richie can’t possibly be a tiger, because he’s got a pack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos and bookmarks, oh my!


	4. High School (An Intro)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a cliché, honestly.
> 
> My trigger warnings are way more scary than the actual content but I wanna be safe about what I tag.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS - Discussion of underage sex (none graphic), References to psychological/verbal abuse from a parent, Body issues, Brief mention of homophobia, Uncensored use of the F** slur, Super Blink-and-you'll-miss-it reference to sexual assault.

            It’s the beginning of their senior year and they've all changed a lot since they were kids. Rather than drifting apart, they become closer than ever. Their relationship, that was initially built childhood innocence and then on shared trauma, matures with them. It becomes something even deeper. It becomes one built on truly knowing one another and loving each other despite and because of it. They’re seen as strange, by adults and peers alike. They’d grown into such different people, with different social groups, and even in such a small town, you didn't just stick with the same people for 6 years, but they did and they had no plans of parting.

            For nearly 3 years now they've been developing plans to move out of Derry together. It's far-fetched, and Sonia Kaspbrak took every opportunity to tell Eddie that very fact, or burst into blubbering tears while accusing Eddie of abandonment. They know it's a long-shot. It requires money, planning, and. _So. Many. Compromises._ At least once every few months they've had to convince Mike, who is terrified to leave his mother alone after his father died of cancer when he was 14. They've had to tell him that they need him, that they love him, that they’ll fucking _take her with them_ if that’s what it takes because they are _not_ leaving him in this God-forsaken town.

            Even now, less than a year from graduation, Eddie is sitting under their usual tree in the park ironing out the details, making lists and writing down potential problems that might arise. The tree is large and shaded the group when it got too hot. It had become their new spot when they outgrew the clubhouse and the Barrens became less appealing with age.

            Eddie is leaning up against the thick trunk, bare legs curled up so his knees are pointed towards the sky and the hem of his khaki shorts bunch up around his thighs, the thighs his mother thought were ‘getting chunky’, meeting the bottom of his loose powder blue knitted sweater. The bottom of his notebook is propped against the small roll of his stomach through his sweater, the one his mother often oh so _helpfully_ pointed out with a pinch of her fingers, while the top is propped up just below the start of his sharp knees. He’s scribbling vigorously on the page he has open, a deep crease between his brows.

            He’s early for their meet up. He’s always too early. The others have friends outside the group, other things to do that tend to make them late while Eddie finds his time painfully available. It doesn’t upset him, he _gets_ it. He does. His friends, on top of their other positive attributes, have grown into incredibly attractive confident people.

            Mike, who was always a sweetheart and so _so_ intelligent, now with sharp cheekbones and a beautiful smile, easily made friends with the kids at his private school despite the stupid racist shit some of the students and staff were prone to spew. He volunteers to teach a damn Sunday school class every week for fuck’s sake, there’s no wonder there are girls in pleated uniform skirts practically falling at his feet.

            Stan is gorgeous, in a borderline offensive way. His curls are always perfectly styled and he's taken to wearing button ups tucked into ironed dark blue or khaki slacks. When he should look like an office worker or a waiter, he just looks like a model. Eddie’s favorite time of the day quickly became lunch break, when he’d sit outside under the hot sun with Stan and Richie at their usual table and Stan would unbutton the first few buttons near his collar and roll up his sleeves to reveal fuzzy well defined forearms. When Eddie finds his damn mouth actually _salivating_ at the sight, he’d be forced to quickly stuff a handful of pretzels or chips into his gullet just to hide his mortification. But it isn't just looks, he's crazy good at math, often impressing the guys and girls in his academic clubs with his knowledge and pleasantly surprising them with his rare moments of dry humor and wit.

            Ben has thinned out since they were kids. He’d gone to an out of town summer camp when he was 15 and come back looking like a new person. When they’d crowded around him in awe, with Richie poking at him every chance he got, Ben had sheepishly explained some smug piece of shit counselor had said horrible things about his weight and his place in the world, and he’d just been so _angry_. So the entire time he was there, he ate nothing but salad and eggs and ran the entire campgrounds every day until he finally had his _moment_ to look that asshole in the face and tell him to go fuck himself. His mother had gone into a panic about him being too thin and he’d gotten himself kicked out of camp, but Eddie had felt starry-eyed and a little enamored while he’d told the tale.

            Now he's practically a heart throb, with a solid place on the track team, and a heart big enough to consume everything in its path. Propositions were not uncommon for him. Sometimes Eddie worries that he might be just as superficial as those girls that filter in and out of Ben's life every few weeks, only interested in him now that he's thinner, but then Eddie would remember how he often spent most of his free time as a 13 year old boy. With a chair shoved under his door handle with raging hormones dancing their way through his body, a vivid imagination at his disposal, and friends that made his insides tight and fluttery all at once. Those memories left him embarrassed of his past self but also reminded him that he’d had these feelings for Ben long before he'd lost the weight. Sometimes, shamefully, he wishes Ben never had, if only to avoid ever hearing his own mother call him ‘the fat friend’.

            Bill, surprising none of them, finally got the attention and admiration he’s always deserved. He became taller and more handsome with time, only slightly shorter than Richie’s ridiculous 6’2 height. His stutter is almost none existent, mainly coming out when he's stressed or nervous. He joined a book club, something that would've been seen as girly or nerdy, but only made to paint him as sensitive. Eddie knows he definitely wouldn’t get that same luck. When girls from Bill's book club flocked to him and flagrantly flirted, Eddie would quietly wonder if they’d die for him. It was never a jealous thought, just one born of curiosity. Eddie had been ready to die for _him_ and no one else, and he knows he’s not the only one who’d felt that way that horrible day that they don’t talk about. He wonders if it’s something wrong with him personally or if it’s something that leaks from Bill’s pours.

            Richie and Beverly are… something else. They’re like fire and gasoline. Even with how amazing all of his friends are and how wholly inadequate he is, it’s them, those two make him question why they stick around with him at all. They look like rock stars most days, with ripped jeans, band shirts, patchy jeans and leather jackets, and messy hair that Richie proudly calls ‘Sex Hair’. They’re loud and confident and _beautiful_ and so _fucking_ talented that he knows they could probably leave town this second and make it in some big city like Los Angeles. They could take over the world if they wanted. But they stay with them, with _him_. And despite everything they’ve been through together, and despite the promise that he’d etched into his bones all those years ago, the one he and Richie had sold their damn souls to keep, he didn’t get _why_.

            They all fit together so easily but sometimes when the two would grin sharp and mischievous and go through with some ridiculous wild plan, he’d suddenly wonder what the _fuck_ he's doing there with them. Where did he get the gal to think he deserved to be a part of them?

            They’d always been amazing and beautiful, but now they _knew_ _it_. Especially Beverly. Sometime in middle school she loosened up a little, enough to not be suffocating herself in her ‘modest’ clothes every single day. She still drew in on herself when a boy would blatantly look her over, but she didn’t rush to cover up like she used to. There was a certain level of fear and disgust towards her budding sexuality which was basically nothing but a jumbled mess of crazy hormones, strange things happening to her body, confusing feelings, and the occasional urge to burst into tears over stupid shit. The boys hated not being able to help her. They just didn’t understand, not even Eddie who knew what it was to want to hide himself away, they couldn’t possibly fathom the way she looked at every boy with fear and distrust.

            Their sophomore year, she snapped. Eddie still isn’t too clear what happened. She’d been acting strange and distant for a few weeks, donning her bulky clothes again, and it boiled down to a group of female upperclassman calling her a slut and belittling her for only hanging around boys.

            One day she was wearing boxy t-shirts and jeans and the next she was wearing literal actual leather pants with a black long sleeved crop top that had clearly been hand cut and smudged eyeliner. Plenty of people stared, but she didn’t curl in on herself. She ignored them or flicked them off and kept her head high and her eyes blazing. The boys had nearly died of shock while Richie had let out a loud wolf whistle, his eyes sparkling before he ran down the hallway full speed, and threw himself at her. She’d laughed and caught his pre-2nd growth spurt body with a surprising amount of strength while he wrapped his arms and legs around her like a koala, nearly sending them both sprawling.

            There’d been… tension that the boys adamantly pushed down, a trick they’d long since learned after years of strange, not quite-platonic, friendship. Mostly they’d been worried. They didn’t know if this was a good thing or a bad thing, if this was a breaking out or the beginning of a spiral. When Eddie had pulled her aside and asked, she’d smiled soft and sad at him, and told him, “What I wear won’t change what people think of me, what they’ll say or do to me, so why should I force myself to change?” Eddie had felt like the ground had shifted under his feet. Where he had felt sort of abandoned by her show of confidence, he now felt awed.

            He’d looked down at the bland khaki pants and polo ensemble that he’d been wearing for forever, the one his mother always picked for him, and felt like a coward. He thought about his mother telling him he was too pudgy, too boney, not manly enough, a late bloomer, _“People are getting the wrong idea, Eddie, I just worry,”_ and he thought of the students and the people around town who’d look at him with the word “fag” written on their tongues.

            He’d asked her in a meek voice, unlike the loud brash tone he’d taken to over the years, if she’d go shopping with him.

            Her smile had been blinding. It had shocked him to his core. He hadn't seen that smile in such a long time. She took him to the thrift shop she frequented right after school with a promise to hem or alter anything he wanted. Eddie wore a pair of shorts for the first time in 4 years and they felt like freedom. Beverly’s smile and confidence a liberation.

            But despite the strength he’d felt that day while they’d picked out clothes, finding his “aesthetic”, a word Beverly had found in one of her fashion books and now used to death, he still felt like a coward. There were some days where he’d put on his jeans, the ones that made him feel overheated and itchy, because his mother had made it a point to not make him breakfast that morning while eyeing his legs disdainfully over a mug of coffee. There was always a deep crease in Beverly and Richie’s brows on those days.

            Eddie has stopped his writing, just staring at the page, his eyes skimming over the different thought bubbles. He’s tracing Stan’s name with his finger while lost in thought when someone plops down beside him. He jerks in surprise.

            Almost as if tracing his name had summoned him, Stan is now sitting beside Eddie. Stan places his things down and folds his legs gracefully so that he’s leaning against the trunk next to Eddie, their legs brushing despite all the available space around them.

            “Hey,” Stan greets, unbuttoning the cuffs of his crisp button up, preparing to push his sleeves up. Eddie feels his musings leave his mind as his stomach swoops pleasantly. He grins.

            “Hey.”

            They spent some time looking over Eddie’s notes regarding the move, tossing ideas back and forth while they wait for the others. Their productivity lasts about as long as it takes for Richie to show up. Eddie doesn’t even know how it happened but he’s sitting in a circle with his friends in a public park while they talk about their sexual conquests. He quietly prays that someone will cut the conversation short, or at the very least he’ll disappear into the bark, but of course he’s not that lucky.

_‘We’re too fucking comfortable with each other,’_ he thinks bitterly. He’s not feeling particularly comfortable right now.

            He can see Mike checking around every few minutes, clearly ready to shut it down the moment he catches sight of a child, but apparently every child in the world has disappeared because the park is shockingly deserted.

            Ben reminisces on his first time which had happened pretty soon after he’d returned from camp and how he’d felt like he couldn't even walk after. Mike mentions the girl he dated for a few weeks, contributing but keeping it tastefully devoid of dirty details out of respect. Richie exaggeratedly describes his first sexual experience, which had been a blow job behind the local diner when he was barely 13 with some girl who moved there for only a few months before moving away again. Eddie frowns through the retelling. He remembers Richie telling them about it all those years ago. At first, none of them believed him until they saw the way his cheeks had flushed and his hands had shook while he spoke. Eddie had felt shocked, his heart pounding, and blushing to the tips of his ears. Later, when he was alone in his bed, he’d fantasized about the moment, but instead of imagining some pretty girl dropping to her knees behind a dirty diner, he’d imagined himself sinking to his knees in front of his best friend. This had resulted in his first full blown gay panic that would last for at least 2 years after that. But now the thought of it made his stomach turn, remembering how baby faced Richie had been at that age. He had been too young. He always was prone to growing up too quickly.

            Beverly pointedly doesn't bring up her first time and instead talks about the guy she’d punched in the face when he’d tried spreading it around that she was easy because they’d fooled around on his couch once. Stan is looking pretty disgusted while he talks about the “nice catholic girl” who he’d dated for a full week before realizing she’d just wanted to date a Jew to piss off her parents. Eddie wrinkles his nose in distaste at that particular memory. He can still remember the confusion on Stan’s face when he’d plucked a fry from Richie’s plate and she’d immediately asked if he could eat that, what with being Jewish and all. Stan had frowned and slowly explained that he and his family weren't that religious, mostly practicing casually. The look of disappointment that followed had made Eddie’s stomach turn and something like horror had settled over him.

            “God, she was fucking insane,” Richie laughs.

            “I wouldn't go that far,” Stan says with a good natured laugh, shaking his head at the memory. “Her dirty talk was less than to be desired though,” he adds, “It basically consisted of her whispering in my ear about my ‘huge uncircumcised dick’ and some other stuff that I’m pretty sure would be considered anti-Semitic.” 

            “Didn't you date her for like 2 months?” Beverly asks.

            “You’d be incredibly shocked what 16 year old me was willing to look passed for some head,” Stan says flatly. Richie’s eyes grow comically wide and his mouth falls open, expression absolutely delighted. He erupts into loud hooting laughter and flops over onto his side, tears springing to his eyes. Eddie covers his mouth to keep in the snort that flies out of him while his other friends follow Richie’s lead.

            “Stan gets off a good one!” Richie cries from his spot on the ground, throwing his arms up.

            “Wish it was a joke,” Stan mumbles and Eddie laughs more openly roughly shoving his forehead against Stan’s sharp shoulder.

            Eddie has just gotten his laughter under control when Richie asks, “What about you, Spaghetti Man?” When he lifts his head, Richie is sitting cross legged again, and all eyes are on Eddie. He tenses.

            “What do you mean?” He asks cautiously. Staling.

            “You get those digits anywhere naughty?” He asks with a lecherous grin and a wiggle of his long fingers. Bill snickers and good-naturedly pushes Richie’s shoulder. Eddie feels heat crawling up his neck, staring at the same appendages he’d been imagining only a few nights ago while he'd been splayed out on his bed, three fingers deep. He’s pretty sure that’s not what Richie’s asking.

            “Why don’t you ask your mom?” He snaps back, trying to cover up the anxious embarrassed energy flowing through him. 

            Richie howls obnoxiously and scoots closer, unwilling to drop the subject, Eddie sees the others subtly do the same, staring at him curiously. “You can tell us, Eddie,” Bill says from his other side.

            Eddie pulls his long sleeves over his perpetually chilly fingers, pressing his back more firmly against the bark, and plays with the hem of his shorts, tugging them more fully over the thighs he’s hated for so long. He presses his knees together to keep gravity from rolling the fabric back down. “You know there’s nothing to tell,” he mumbles bitterly.

            “But why?” Ben asks. For an awful moment, Eddie thinks he’s being made fun of, but this is Ben and he just looks like he’s burning with genuine curiosity. He frowns in confusion.

            “‘Why’?” Eddie echoes, confused, needing elaboration.

            Bill speaks up, “Y’know, is there someone you’re waiting for?”

            “Or marriage?” Mike pipes in.

            “Or are you just not ready?” Ben asks, keeping his voice carefully nonjudgmental.

            “Come on, Eds, what’s keeping your pickle in your pants?” Richie asks.

            Eddie could feel his face burning with embarrassment and shame and before he could stop himself he was snapping, “It’s not like anyone is linin’ up to get in my pants!”

            There’s silence and then his friends start _laughing_ at him, even _Ben and Mike_. The only one who isn't is Beverly who’s looking around at her friends and then Eddie with something like deep understanding and maybe pity. She sighs and shakes her head in exasperation but doesn't say what’s on her mind. Eddie clamps his mouth shut with a painful click of his teeth and feels _mortification_ and betrayal and there’s hurt sitting heavy in his throat like bile. Beverly quickly changes the subject, distracting the group from the way Eddie is receding into himself. He’s grateful to her.

            He wears his stupid scratchy hot restrictive jeans, to the delight of his mother, for an entire week and a half after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what made me decide Eddie was gonna have chubby thighs but now I'm obsessed with the other Losers being super into them. 
> 
> Eddie's sharp personality and soft aesthetic represent the duality of man. 
> 
> (Pretty sure I'm just projecting)
> 
> Gonna have some pron in the next chapter.


	5. High School (The Virgin Sacrifice)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "How to make hetero sex gay" - an autobiography.  
> But yeah there's a het scene. You should read it. It's sweet and only slightly graphic. 
> 
> Not really any trigger warnings, except maybe underage drinking/drug use and sex while high on marijuana. (There's gonna a lot of casual marijuana use in the fic, just a warning.) 
> 
> The other none trigger related info will be in the tags.

            They’re at Bill’s house and his mother is out for the night. It’s Eddie’s 18th, the third to last of the group to reach ‘adulthood’. Unlike the other 18ths they've celebrated, the party is small, just them. When they’d asked him who else he wanted there, he’d simply shook his head with a shrug and an awkward smile and said with an uncharacteristically genuine tone, “I don’t need anyone else but you guys.” It filled Beverly’s head with deep concern but had practically melted her damn heart.

            There's music blaring and everyone is pleasantly inebriated with the smell of alcohol and marijuana filling the dim living room. The coffee table and couch have been pushed towards the edges of the room to create a makeshift dance floor that Ben, Mike, Richie, and Stan are now occupying. Ben and Mike are dancing pretty terribly together and randomly throwing each other into twirls that make them both laugh drunkenly. Richie has his right hand in Stan’s left and his other hand on Stan’s shoulder with a comically serious expression on his face. Stan mirror's Richie's expression and gracefully sweeps Richie around in a waltz despite ‘Whip It’ by Devo acting as their background music. Richie’s mask cracks immediately, grinning joyously, and Beverly is dying from her seat on the coffee table.

            Out of the corner of her eye she can see Eddie at the entrance of the dining room, looking around the room with a joint in his hand. He takes a large hit and holds it in his lungs before blowing it out slowly and carefully, his face twists up as he tries to avoid coughing. Beverly stares openly now, transfixed by the way the smoke swirls around his face and gives him a mysterious look. The image of mystery is destroyed by the heavy blood shot eyes and the oversized sweatshirt with ET slapped on the front but it mesmerizes her all the same.

            Eddie looks at her nervously and walks over. He wordlessly hands Bill, who is melting into the couch with a high lazy grin, the unfinished joint and makes a B-line for the coffee table. Beverly grins and scoots over, patting the seat beside her. He still looks nervous. When he sits down beside her, with a small space between them, she immediately grabs the hand closest to her and scoots over until they are flush from hip to shoulder.

            “What’s up, birthday boy?” she asks at a normal volume, knowing they're close enough to be heard over the loud music. Eddie’s eyes are glazed and far away while he fiddles with the many rings on her fingers. She doesn't push him to speak.

            “I have… a favor, sort of…, to ask,” he says long after what would be considered a socially appropriate time to answer a question. Beverly nods. Eddie takes a deep breath. “I want to lose my virginity.” Beverly feels suddenly, abruptly, sober. Better than any cold shower she’s ever had. She looks at Eddie with wide eyes, her heart racing.

            “Oh,” she breathes.

            Eddie chews on his lip. “Yeah…,” he mumbles, “You can say no.”

            “You haven’t really asked me a question,” she replied with a small shy laugh. Eddie looks like he might die of embarrassment.

            “R-right.” She squeezes his hand tight when his fingers freeze in their fiddling. “Would you… I mean… would you do that… with me? Take it, my virginity, I mean,” he struggles heavily through the request. Beverly gives him a kind open smile, keeping her grip tight and her gaze unflinching.

            “Are you sure?” she asks carefully.

            “I’m already 18 and I’ve never even…,” Eddie trails off, a deep crease in his brow. There's shame written all over his face and Beverly wants to hold him tight.

            “That’s okay, you know,” she tells him, her voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “You don’t have to do anything just because society says you have to.”

            “No, I know,” he says quickly, reassuring them both, “I… I want to.” Beverly seems dubious but she doesn’t question him further.

            “And… me, why me?” she asks carefully, “Wouldn’t you rather it be…?” she trails off and let's her eyes drag over the various inebriated boys around them.

            “I’m so obvious,” she hears him groan to himself. She gives his hand another squeeze, drawing his attention back to the question that's practically burning through her veins now. He looks down at their hands, his short wavy hair shifting out of its usual perfect placement, “Because… you didn’t laugh,” he admits quietly to the space between them.

            She doesn’t understand for a second and then the memory of their conversation in the park slots into place. What goes through her mind is, _‘Boys are such fucking idiots.’_

            “God, Eddie, don’t you know?” she asks quietly, but her words don't carry over the music.

            She thinks about that day, when Eddie had looked so small after his outburst, when their friends had started laughing, unaware of how serious their friend had been, how self-conscious. She knows why. They think he  _knows_. They thought they were laughing at a hysterical joke and not a genuine admission of self-deprecation.

            They think that Eddie knows he’s the reason Richie had walked face first into an open locker the first day he’d walked into school wearing a too-long sweater that had covered his jean shorts so only the hem of the legs poked out, making him look almost pants-less. They think he knows that Stan purposely rolls his sleeves up when they hang out because Eddie’s eyes get dark and a pretty flush graces his cheeks. They think he knows that Mike is always dragging Eddie’s legs into his lap just for an excuse to touch the soft skin of Eddie’s calves or that Bill practically jumps into action whenever he sees a loose eyelash so he can pick it off for a chance to get just half a second to get an up close look at the way Eddie’s eyelashes brush his cheeks when he closes his eyes. They think he sees the way Ben’s face goes red when Eddie casually settles against his chest as a backrest or how Beverly tends to zone out staring at the tan lines on his thighs when his shorts ride up a little.

            They think he knows about the friends from their different social groups that have pulled them aside at one time or another and quietly asked if he was available. But he  _doesn’t_. They never told him about any of it, unknowingly, collectively deciding to keep the propositions to themselves because those friends weren’t good enough for him. He’s not trained to keep his eyes out for those little come-ons the way Bev has been conditioned to do for the sake of safety, his self-esteem too low to even  _think_  about those being possibilities, and Beverly feels like a  _failure_.

            “I trust you… not to say yes out of pity,” Eddie adds, his shoulders slumping and his head low like he expects her to turn him down. Like she’d  _ever_  turn him down. She gently slips her hand from his and his shoulders tense but then she’s cupping his face and turning his still bloodshot eyes to her. There’s fire in her veins.

            “Anything you want,” she answers softly, leaning in and hesitating only a centimeter from his lips before he’s closing the distance between them. His lips are ridiculously soft, the only one in their group who uses lip balm religiously. She feels him shiver under her hands and sigh into her mouth, resting his hands hesitantly on her waist. She quietly promises herself she isn't going to take this for granted.

            The next day when they’re all sprawled on Bill’s floor practically on top of each other in a nest of pillows and blankets, she opens her eyes and worries Eddie won’t remember what he asked her, that it was just a drunken moment. She looks over and his crusty eyes, only an inch away from Beverly’s, are struggling to open. When he sees her there, he gives her a nervous smile. She gives him a searching look in return, and he just nods at her, like he knows exactly what she’s looking for. She leans in and presses a soft kiss to his lips that he returns immediately.

            “We taste disgusting,” he mumbles into her mouth and she giggles quietly, causing Ben to snort awake, jostling where their heads have been resting in the curve of his spine.

            She doesn’t tell any of the guys even though she wants nothing more than to yell at them about what a bunch of fuck ups they all are. She doesn’t want to break Eddie’s trust that way.

            The group hasn't crossed that invisible line set by society, except Bev and Richie who don’t really give a shit, trying to keep something like normalcy in their already disturbingly close relationship. It's a silent knowledge that they share. The knowledge that they’d jump one another’s bones if they didn’t fear the consequences of it. Apparently they’d allowed Eddie to go on thinking he isn't a part of that and that was just  _unacceptable._

            So Beverly tries to make it good, tries so hard to make it good for him, but the first time she has him laid out on her bed, they’d come to her house with this in mind, and her hands inch up underneath his sweater, he starts hyperventilating. He’s so incredibly embarrassed by it that he rejects her touch outright and instead curls up in the corner of her bed looking horribly sad while she moves around with nervous energy trying to do anything she can to make him feel better without being able to  _touch_. It drives her up the wall. He seems to finally get sick of her uncharacteristically anxious behavior and silently spreads his arms, holding the blanket he had around his shoulders open in silent offering. She throws herself into the embrace and burrows her face into his neck while Eddie wraps his arms, and the blanket, around her securely. She whispers quiet apologies against his throat and even suggests maybe he’d be more comfortable with one of the others, but he immediately shakes his head and presses his face into her red hair, taking a deep breath.

            “No, I want it to be you,” he admits into her scalp, his voice filled with affection and certainty. Beverly’s stomach swoops and her determination is renewed.

            The second time they try, it’s a week and a half later and they’re back in Beverly’s room. Richie, the last of the group remaining of their after-school gathering, had finally left, leaving Beverly and Eddie with half a joint to share between the two of them. They're pleasantly high, lounging against Bev’s headboard and her stereo is quietly playing a Nirvana CD. Eddie has a floaty smile on his face that makes her grin. She soaks in the tousled look of his hair and her eyes track the freckles along his nose and cheeks carefully until he turns his head to face her.

            “Isn’t your mom expecting you?” she whispers even though they're the only ones in the house. Eddie grins easily.

            “Fuck it,” he replies with a shrug, leaning in. She mirrors his action without hesitation, stubbing the joint out on her side table without taking her eyes off him. The kiss is slow and lazy with a lot of tongue, much less awkward now that they’ve had some practice since Eddie had built up the courage to make his request the night of his birthday. Beverly is pleased to find Eddie is a quick learner, imitating nips and swipes of tongue she’s sure she’s done during one of their past make out sessions.

            She presses a hand to his sternum and hums pleasantly when she can feel the vibrations of his quiet moans there. He cups her face and slips his fingers into her hair right above her right ear, cradling the side of her head. She can taste the cherry ChapStick she’d seen him apply only a few minutes ago, it makes her blood sing, and when she pulls away she finds her own dark red lip stick smeared over his lips, coupled with the dazed expression on his face and the blush on his cheeks, he’s quite a sight. Heat is quickly pooling between her legs. 

            She moves slowly, looking for signs of discomfort or fear while she situates herself over him. He moves compliantly, sliding down the bed so he’s lying more fully on his back. She hovers over him with her hands on either side of his head on the bed, her wild hair falling between them and cutting them off from the rest of the world. She isn’t used to this. Any guy she’s been with, even Richie, would almost aggressively try to put themselves in a position of dominance, to get between her legs, but Eddie is lying pliant, looking content with her between his knees.

            “Are you sure?” she asks again. She searches his eyes carefully. They’re still bloodshot and sort of glazed but there’s clarity there. He nods without hesitation. He reaches out for her, placing a hand on the side of her neck to pull her in. She follows his tugging without resistance, bowing her body over his. She releases a sigh when their lips finally touch again.

            She feels so incredibly keyed up, with Eddie’s slow gentle caresses and the way his fingers slide down her throat and over where her collarbones are peeking out of her spaghetti strap tank top before grazing his fingers back up again, and the way the marijuana is heightening the feeling has her clenching her knees together and squirming. She wants to press up close, grind against his thigh, have him  _touch_ , but she carefully keeps her distance, only keeping her lips and hands on him while she lets his hands wander where they please. In any other situation she would be pressed up close by now, with her shirt and bra long since discarded, but she’s careful to limit as many reminders as possible that she is very much Not-Male.

            Despite this being Eddie’s idea, she can’t shake the feeling that she’s not what he wants, that she’s just a warm substitute that he trusts because he’s afraid to ask for what he  _really_  wants, so she controls herself and focuses on him. But, of course, Eddie always surprises her.

            He places his hands just at the bottom of her ribcage and slowly slides his hands down her torso towards her hips. It sends shivers racing up and down her spine and she her nipples are practically trying to bust their way out of her fucking bra. When he gets a good grip on her waist, she thinks that they’ll go back to more of the same, except he’s tugging her down.

            Her hands slip out from under her, now resting with her elbows on the bed. She nearly head butts Eddie in the face at the sudden shift, but she has trouble caring because they’re suddenly pressed right up against each other and Eddie lets out this quiet gasp that sends more blood rushing downward. He’s cradling her between his thighs and she can feel his exposed legs rubbing up against her own and she can feel where his erection is pressing into her hip. She’s startled by how overwhelmed she feels.

            She pulls away, a spike of uncertainty running through her when she feels her breasts pressing against his chest. She doesn’t know what she’s expecting from him, discomfort or maybe even disgust, some indicator that her  _equipment_  is the wrong set, but when she looks down at him, he’s looking at her with so much love and trust and  _lust_  that she feels her breath catch in her chest. She stares down at him and she can see some of the lusty haze in his eyes clearing, replaced with uncertainty.

            She reaches up with one hand and cups his face, sliding her thumb over his kiss swollen bottom lip. “God, I love you,” she breathes out. Eddie looks surprised and getting the full brunt of his fucking doe eyes is almost too much so she kisses him again instead. It takes a moment but he gets back into the groove of it quickly, keeping his hold on her hips. She feels strangely proud of him when his hips arch up in a smooth grind that make them both moan.

            In the wake of his boldness, one of her hands lands on his hip and her fingers begin to inch up his ridiculously soft and fuzzy purple sweater and she can feel warm hot skin on her finger tips when she notices the shift in his breathing. It’s not a good shift.

            She slips her hand out quickly, but she can still feel the way he’s struggling to find the rhythm in his breathing again and she thinks she might feel him softening in his shorts. She pulls away and before he can even get the chance to start over worrying and being embarrassed, she drops the remainder of her weight on top of him with a small grunt. She lets her arms stretch out by his head with her cheek resting on her upper arm while she stares at the side of Eddie’s face. Eddie stares up at the ceiling, his eyes screwed shut tight, panting.

            “I… I’m sorry,” he mumbles, his body stiff under her. She tries to shake her head but it’s awkward in this position and he can’t see it anyways.

            “Don’t be,” she replies quietly, genuine. She brings the hand of the arm she isn't leaning on down and begins running her long perfectly manicured squared off nails along the hair just behind his ear. “Talk to me,” she says quietly. He makes a noise of confusion that jostles her prone form. “Tell me… what you think about when you’re by yourself,” she explains, trying to go for seductive but missing the mark and landing on genuine curiosity. When he goes quiet, she twirls a longer piece of brown hair around her finger and he shivers when her nail unintentionally scrapes his scalp. “I won’t tell them,” she reassures, knowing full well what he thought about.

            “I don’t… I…,” Eddie struggles to get out.

            “Ben,” she interrupts him, “Tell me what you think, when you’re thinking about Ben.” She can feel him swallow thickly, his throat clicking. “Tell me,” she urges, pressing a kiss to the edge of his jaw. He takes one more deep shuddering breath but she can feel in the way his body relaxes marginally that he’s giving in.

            “His eyes,” he admits. It's a strange first choice, but she smiles affectionately, knowing exactly what he means. “When he’s totally focused on you it’s like…,” he trails off.

            “Like you’re the only person in the world,” she finishes for him, her voice barely a whisper.

            “Yeah…,” he mumbles, she can feel the up-tick in his heart rate from where they’re pressed together. “I imagine him watching me… when I really get into it… I feel like a live wire.” She feels her own heart trip over itself. When he doesn’t elaborate further, she decides to move on despite the fact that she knows there’s more inside him than he’s letting on.

            “Stan,” she lists next, already feeling her arousal renewing.

            Eddie gives a small breathy laugh that makes her head bounce a little. “Those fucking forearms,” he grumbles. Beverly laughs and tucks her face against his neck affectionately.

            “Those fucking forearms,” she agrees, keeping her nose pressed against the skin there.

            “I think about him lifting me up a lot,” he admits sounding a little breathless. “Sliding his hands up the back of my legs and just  _lifting_  and pressing me against something.” She could feel him stirring again between their bodies and she resists the urge to squirm. “Leaving bruises shaped like fingers,” he breathes, voice shaky, and this time Beverly can’t resist squirming a little, drawing a small groan from Eddie.

            “ _Fuck_ , that’s a good one,” she mumbles, biting her lip, letting her fingernail drag over the pulse point that is now jumping in his neck, making his breath hitch. “Mike,” she says next, this draws an actual whine from Eddie and that makes her finally lift her head enough to look him in the face. He's chewing on his lip and his eyes are dark. “Well, now I gotta know,” she says, her voice very loud in how normal it sounds. Eddie huffs a small laugh through his nose, releasing his lip with a small smile.

            “His hands,” he sighs, his own hips squirming now. “Fuck, Bev, his hands.”

            “Yeah?” she asks, surprised by the way her tone drops and the air rushes from her lungs.

            “Yeah,” Eddie replies, sounding dazed. “They’re so fucking big and  _strong_  and he’s got these callouses on his palm and I…,” embarrassment kills the words in his throat but Beverly is having  _none_  of that.

            She groans and gyrates her hips once, making Eddie hiss and his hips jump pleasantly. “Don’t fucking leave me hanging, Kaspbrak,” she growls, boldly nipping his earlobe.

            “Fuck,” he groans, one of his hands coming up to grip Bev’s waist, his thumb brushing the skin of her hip where her shirt has rolled up, while his other comes up to rest near his own clavicle. She watches that hand closely, sensing its importance. “I imagine him sliding his hand up my chest until he reaches my throat and…,” Eddie lets out this little breathy moan that has Beverly practically aching with want. She marvels, awed, as he slowly closes his fingers over his own throat, just enough to put some pressure on his windpipe without cutting off any of the air flow, and arches his back off the bed a little, rolling his hips forward like he hadn’t even meant to do it, lost in whatever fantasy he's having.

            “Fucking hell, Eddie,” her own imagination running wild. She always did find her imagination heightened when she was stoned and she has never been more appreciative for it. She can see in her mind’s eye the way Mike’s big hand would dwarf Eddie’s throat, dark tone contrasting beautifully with Eddie’s slightly lighter skin, how the callouses born of hard labor on his family’s farm would drag across Eddie’s baby smooth skin. Putting that sort of power in Mike’s hands, knowing he could easily snap Eddie like a twig, but being even more certain he never would. The thought had her feeling shaky all over. “B… Bill,” she says next.

            “I hope that was an accident,” Eddie mumbles with a lazy grin that makes Beverly’s heart soar.

            “It definitely was,” she grumbles, shoving her face against Eddie’s throat with a bit more force than necessary.

            “Am I throwing you off, Miss. Marsh?” he asks, tone teasing.

            “You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” she sighs it out against his skin like a secret. She can feel his heart jump wildly between them. “Bill,” she says again more firmly, bringing them back to it. She wants every detail. Wants to hear what Eddie has done to himself, what specific fantasies drives him completely wild, what sort of noises he makes, if he moans their names when he's alone, but she’ll take what he’s willing to give.

            When Eddie doesn’t respond right away, Beverly swivels her hips in a slow bump and grind that has them both moaning until Eddie’s hands snap to her hips to still her movements, it only adds fuel to the fire between her thighs.

            “Lips,” Eddie says breathlessly, keeping a firm hold on Beverly’s hips. “Think about them wrapped around my  _cock_ ,” he groans, arching his back a little and  _thrusting_  his hips against her. The angle hasn’t been quite right for Beverly to get anything resembling good friction but she’s wound so tight and Eddie is so fucking erotic that she wonders if she’ll even need it. “My fingers in his hair.”

            “I’d give anything to see that,” she whispers against the shell of his ear, shocking herself with how much _want_ is in her voice, “He’d take it so  _good_.” Eddie  _whimpers_  under her and his hold becomes bruising for a second. “Richie,” she finishes and feels Eddie shudder.

            “That fucking asshole,” he gasps through gritted teeth, his hips jerking again. Beverly’s resulting laugh dissolves into a moan somewhere along the way. “His stupid fucking  _fingers_ ,” Eddie practically growls, grinding his hips  _backward_  against Beverly’s mattress and just the notion of what that means has a whimper spilling out of her own throat and she’s so fucking turned on her crotch  _hurts_  and she might just pass out from whatever the fuck the female equivalent of blue balls is.

            Her hands are sliding down his body and squeezing awkwardly between his hips and the bed and when she finally gets the perfect angle, she grips his ass and gives a firm  _squeeze._

            “Fuck, they’d go in so easy,” she’s whispering before she really knows what she’s saying and Eddie gives another full body shudder and this stuttering noise that has her back arching into another downward grind.

            “Shit,” he gasps. She starts grinding her hips in earnest now, wanting nothing more than to see his face screw up as he comes, but he’s gripping her hips again, and stilling her movements. She fucking  _whines_  and shoots him a frustrated look. His eyes are half lidded and he looks wrecked but his voice is firm. “You forgot one,” he says. She frowns and makes a noise of confusion. Eddie shifts her body, moving his right leg between her thighs and bringing his knee back up so that she’s straddling his thigh. She feels herself shaking with anticipation at the prospect of sweet  _sweet_  friction, she almost forgets what Eddie had been saying.

            “Hips,” he whispers, rubbing smooth circles against Beverly’s hip bones. He slides his hands lower, fingers only hesitating a second before taking two handfuls of her ass that has her arms feeling weak. He bites his lip when the tips of his middle fingers dip between her legs and brushes against where her shorts are pressed tight against her crotch and her legs are like jelly beneath her. “Ass,” he whispers next, leaning in and nipping her ear. Her hips jump backwards against his thigh and she’s shocked by the wanton moan that leaves her throat, unbidden. He gives one quick two-handed squeeze before sliding further down over the backs of her thighs. “Thighs.” Beverly pulls her hands out from under him, her wrists beginning to ache and her legs unable to support her anymore, and pushes up onto her hands, hovering over him again, suddenly feeling the need to  _move_.

            “Eddie, please,” she begs, grinding her pelvis along the length of his thick thigh, the ones that drove them all out of their minds.

            “I’m not done,” he reprimands. “Lips,” he breathes, pressing a sweet kiss to her lips while he gently shifts his leg a little, trying to give her more friction. He slides his hands back up, tracing the length of her spine before tangling his fingers in the long locks resting on her back “Hair.” He slowly slides his hands over her ribs to her chest and cups her breasts, giving a gentle squeeze, and she is fully fucking shaking now. “Heart,” he says giving a cheeky grin.

            “A-Asshole,” she stutters with a smile pulling at her lips.

            Eddie releases her chest and cups her face, rubbing his thumbs under her eyes. She stares down at him and feels suddenly inadequate in the face of the complete adoration she finds overlaying the ever-present lust. He swallows thickly, “Eyes,” he says quietly, “Freckles.” His hands suddenly slide lower, down over her throat, and for a second she’s certain he’s going to grab her tits again, but he stops at the dip below her throat and his eyes darken and he’s chewing his lip again. “Collar bones,” there’s something in his tone that makes her want to ask for details, but all she can think about is how much she wants to come on Eddie’s fucking thigh.

            “Eddie,” she whimpers. She feels like she’s breaking apart, every nerve in her body electrified. He pulls her down into a heated kiss before getting his hands back on her hips and angling his leg so that it's almost flat, but not quite, forming an obtuse triangle with the mattress. The perfect angle for Beverly to be able to get a good grind going.

            Eddie begins pushing and pulling Beverly’s hips, guiding her into it while he grinds his own hips forward against where her knee is digging into the mattress between his legs. She pulls away and sits up more fully, her hands flat against Eddie’s abdomen which is twitching and tensing under her palms, her back arches lightly as she pushes all her weight downward, getting just enough pressure against her clit to have her gasps and moans filling the room. She would give anything to get the tight denim off her hips but that would involve stopping and that can’t happen.

            When she looks down at him, it almost pushes her over. His hair is a mess on her pillow, his eyes are fully focused on the movement of her hips while he sucks on his own bottom lip. The flush of his skin goes all the way down his neck and into the neckline of his sweater, his fucking  _fuzzy purple sweater_ , and when her eyes track further down she see the sweater has rolled up without his knowledge, revealing a strip of stomach. She thinks she sees a crease on his stomach where she imagines his small amount of pudge naturally folds when he slouches and  _he’s so fucking cute_  that she has to dip back in for another kiss.

            She’s panting against his lips and her hips are rutting against his leg desperately. He kisses the corner of her mouth then his lips are barely brushing the skin of her cheek, his breath warm against her flushed skin.

 “Come for me, Bev,” he breathes against her overheated skin.

            And because Beverly is shit at saying no to her boys, she does, hard and loudly. She mashes her face against his throat, eyes squeezed shut and mouth hanging open while she presses her hips back roughly, rutting her way through her orgasm. She’s distantly aware of Eddie thrusting up against her leg and his breathing stuttering. When she forces her head up, still panting wetly against his throat, she watches him toss his head back and drinks in the sight of the muscles in his throat straining while his mouth falls open and the air in his throat silently stalls. There’s suddenly a damp spot where her leg is pressed against him. The air that gets trapped in his throat escapes him in a gasping pant, his chest rising and falling heavily, his face twisted up.

            She forces herself up, finding her whole body still shaking, her legs and arms weak, so instead of trying to shift away, she sits on his stomach fully and cradles his face. His hands are loose on her hips and he’s rubbing his thumbs against her hip bones affectionately. When he finally gets his eyes open, she doesn’t know what he sees on her face, but his eyes suddenly widen in shock and his panting catches.

            “You’re so beautiful,” she whispers reverently and Eddie looks overwhelmed so she leans in and kisses his nose. Instead of pulling back again, she hovers over his face. “And amazing,” she adds, kissing his forehead, “Gorgeous,” his cheek, “Perfect,” the corner of his lips. His fingers are tight on her hips again and she feels him trembling under her hands. When she feels wetness touch the hands cupping his face, she kisses him more fully, closed mouthed and sweet.

            His fingers release her hips and slide up, hugging her tight around the waist, knocking her off balance. She lets herself be tugged down, breaking the kiss, and gently pulls him so that they lay on their sides facing each other. Eddie’s arms are still tight around her while he hides his face in her hair. She snuggles in close, tucking her face into Eddie’s neck, enjoying the silky softness of the sweater against her cheek, and wraps her arm tight around his waist.

            She rubs circles into his back while he sniffles quietly.

            “I’m gonna need to borrow some pants,” his voice comes a moment later, cracking and muffled by her hair.

            Beverly laughs loudly. When Eddie makes an offended noise she presses her lips to his neck and blows a loud wet raspberry. Eddie shrieks in surprise and laughs, pushing back, nearly falling off the bed. She pulls him back to her while they laugh against each other.

            “Whatever you want,” she says with a grin.

            She doesn’t expect much after that. They keep their hands to themselves when they’re around their friends, almost noticeably so, but somehow she’ll still find herself on her bed with him; over and under him. She’s amazed at the way he changes, the confidence he starts to develop despite him still keeping his clothes firmly on, even as he ventures under her shirt and up her skirt. She knows the others can feel the shift, can probably sense the way he radiates a little more the day after their romps, but they brush it off and they’re such  _idiots_.

            She wants to tell them so  _badly_. She wants to gush about his fingers and words and the way she nearly had a heart attack the day he’d been hovering over her, his sweater of the day hanging loose between them, and his back had arched so  _beautifully_  and his hips had ground forward gracefully, like he knew exactly what he looked like despite being so unaware. She maybe wants to rub it in their faces a little. Sometimes she fantasizes about them all circled around her, like kids around a campfire, while she tells them in extensive detail, details she made it her  _mission_ to extract from Eddie every time they’re alone, what Eddie really thinks about them.

            But she doesn't, not even Richie who actually asks her if something is up. She doesn't want to break her promise to Eddie. It’s eating her up inside.

            So she’s flooded with bone melting relief when Eddie unintentionally drops the bomb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout at me through the void.
> 
> There's so much crying in this so far, wtf.


	6. Eddie Is A Stoner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: In this fic I view Eddie as grayace with an inclination for men (Even if that's never how he is going to be identified/self identified since the term doesn't fit period typical ideas/knowledge). Richie is Bi and the others are pretty straight except that they're very gay for each other~~~ *shrug*
> 
> Lotta recreational marijuana use and a slightly underage (17 close to 18) non graphic sex scene. 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> (This is officially my longest posted fic lmao)

They’re spread out in Richie’s room with the door firmly locked, sitting in a circle on the floor, except Eddie whose sitting on the edge of Richie’s bed with his legs hooked over Stan’s shoulders with the Jewish boy’s head resting back against his thighs, beers in hand while they play Never Have I Ever. Richie is lounging on his side with one of two joints between his lips. Ben, who’s propped up with his elbow digging sharply into Richie’s hip, takes small sipping hits off the second joint and passes to his right while Richie passes to his left. It’s their second set of joints that night and the group is already feeling decidedly high. Bill gives Mike a challenging look from across the circle and Mike grins back lazily, the two taking huge synchronized hits.

“Hey! Don’t waste my weed assholes!” Richie cries, smacking Mike’s leg with a laugh. Mike finally caves and starts coughing, the smoke billowing out in the room. Bill tries to hold in his laughter but he ends up letting it out, his giggling quickly turns into a hacking fit. Beverly rolls her eyes and tosses them their water bottles from her spot between Mike and Stan. Bill and Mike pass their half smoked joints and greedily gulp down half the water in their bottles. Richie eyes Beverly as he takes a small sip of his beer, he knows she’s hiding something but he can’t figure it out and it’s driving him bonkers.

Bill roughly knocks his hand against Stan’s shoulder when the man doesn't immediately react. Stan’s eyes are closed, head back, and looking half asleep while Eddie runs his fingers through his curls, scratching short nails over Stan’s scalp gently. A rare privilege that Stan only ever seems to allow Eddie, particularly when there is weed involved. His hands are holding onto Eddie’s knees, his exposed forearms hooked around so they’re pressed against the front of Eddie’s lower legs with Eddie’s sharp ankles pressing into the crux of his elbow, holding his legs over his shoulders firmly. The only indicator that he’s awake is the way his thumbs are absently rubbing against the small indents in Eddie’s knees. Stan still isn't reacting when Beverly is already holding out her joint to them, looking amused.

Eddie laughs and takes his hands from Stan’s hair, resulting in an annoyed noise from the man, and reaching for both joints. He sticks both between his lips, holding them between the tip of his thumb and index finger of each hand, closes his eyes, and takes a slow lazy drag. Richie watches, his mouth unintentionally forming a small ‘O’. Richie watches Stan’s head tilt back further, exposing the long line of his elegant neck as he watches Eddie silently. He looks composed but Richie can see the flush sliding up his pale neck and his throat working around a thick swallow.

Eddie removes them and when he opens his eyes, he finds Stan’s chin reaching for the ceiling while he watches Eddie upside down, eyes darkening as they take in the way Eddie’s lips purse as he blows and the last of the smoke swirls into the already foggy room.

“Don’t get any ash in my hair,” he deadpans. Eddie grins, eyes blood shot, already stoned off his ass. He laughs and holds both joints to Stan’s lips. Even from his position furthest from the two, Richie can see the way Eddie bites his lip when Stan takes his own slow hit, eyes never leaving Eddie’s as he blows the smoke out of the corner of his mouth smoothly. Richie feels a shiver race up his back and he’s sure Ben feels it. Stan and Eddie stare at each other a few seconds longer before Stan finally lifts his head with a grace that frustrates Richie to no end, the joints still in his mouth. He removes them and passes them back the way they’d come. Eddie laughs too loudly when Stan impatiently gropes behind himself for Eddie’s wrist, tugging Eddie’s hand towards his curls.

Beverly takes the offered joint as an afterthought, Richie can see the way her eyes have glazed over and her gaze is running over the two, taking in every detail. Richie can feel Ben squirming next to him and when he looks at Mike, the man’s hands are gripping the hem of his jeans like a lifeline. And Bill is blatantly staring, his eyes hooded and glazed over. The heavy sexual tension finally lifts when Eddie digs his fingers into Stan’s curls, bows forward, and places an obnoxiously loud kiss to Stan’s head, causing the usually composed man to laugh and pinch Eddie’s knee. The others laugh at their antics and relax.

“Okay, enough eye fucking and let’s keep playing!” Richie cries, feeling suddenly embarrassed by how worked up he'd gotten, leaning across Mike to snatch the joint from Beverly, who is grinning at him knowingly with a teasing glint in her eyes. He flicks her off and takes a final drag of the barely there joint, hissing when it burns his finger tips and drops it in the ash tray sitting between them. Ben finishes off his own joint, his eyes glued shyly to the floor, and follows suit.

“Whose turn is it?” Bill asks, leaning back on his hands as his heavy eyes slide over the group.

“Oh shit, I don’t remember,” Mike mumbles and starts snickering. Richie is feeling pleasantly fuzzy, but he has an awareness borne of tolerance that the others lack. Ben appears to be the most put together, quiet and still, but Richie knows that's just what happens when he is truly truly stoned and trapped inside his own head. He can see Beverly watching them all, the same clarity there, her grin bright and happy.

“I’ll go,” Richie huffs, sipping his beer. He sits up, dislodging Ben’s arm as he does, causing the bulkier man to nearly topple over. Richie laughs. “Yer a fuckin’ lightweight boi’O,” Richie says in a shitty Irish accent. Eddie snickers into his fist.

Richie grins proudly, knowing full well that Eddie would have just rolled his eyes if he’d been sober. He always enjoys when Eddie’s a little fucked up. His hard edges go soft and suddenly the oversized sweaters he’s always wearing don’t contrast with his sharp glares and sharper tongue. Richie's grin turns mischievous. “Never have I ever not had sex,” he says confidently, eyeing Eddie, hoping to get him crossfaded.

The others, besides Beverly whose gone stiff and Stan whose gone boneless, all turn to stare at Eddie expectantly. But he doesn't reach for the drink on Richie’s bed side table as expected, lost in whatever adventure he’s on in Stan’s hair. Richie points and laughs obnoxiously.

“Hey, stoner!” he calls, finally catching Eddie’s attention which makes Richie laugh harder, “Drink up.”

Eddie looks annoyed with being interrupted and turns back to Stan’s scalp with a huff, “But I’ve had sex.” He says it like he hasn't just knocked Richie’s world off its axis. Stan’s eyes snap open wide and he’s staring straight at Richie. Richie catches his eye and he can see the question there.

‘Did you know?’ Stan’s eyes scream.

‘Hell the fuck no,’ Richie’s eyes scream right back.

Everyone seems suddenly much more sober. It wasn't so much the having sex, it was that none of them _knew_ , and that did _not_ happen in this group. Stan had called Richie from the girl’s _house_ the first time he’d gotten head, literally minutes after the deed was done. But not only that, this was _Eddie_ and there was something like envy burning its way through his veins for whoever got that fucking _gift_.

“When?” Ben asks, voice strained and eyes desperate, his first words in a while.

“Like a month and a half ago,” he mumbles, humming quietly along to the song that’s blasting from Richie’s stereo, something by The Who. He moves his hands to the hairs just below Stan’s earlobes, scratching there lightly while his thumbs graze the shell of Stan’s ears. Stan gives a full bodied shiver and his hands snap up, gripping Eddie’s wrists again, this time to still them. Eddie frowns down at him and groans in frustration.

Stan scoots forward a little, just enough so that when he contorts his torso around to look at Eddie more fully his face isn't planted in Eddie’s crotch.

 _‘There’s a thought,’_ Richie thinks to himself, downing the last of his beer, figuring the game is effectively being abandoned.

One of Eddie’s legs slides free of its perch and dangles off the side of Richie’s bed but the other stays hooked on Stan’s shoulder.

“Why didn't you tell us?” Stan asks. Richie is hesitant to think it, but there might be hurt under Stan’s carefully neutral tone. Now Eddie looks embarrassed. He tugs the sleeves of his sweater over his hands, a nervous tick he’s picked up since the day he started wearing them. Richie can see more clarity in Eddie’s glassy gaze and Richie knows Eddie’s beginning to grasp the position he’s put himself in.

“I… I wanted to,” he admits, covering and uncovering his hands anxiously. “I don’t know,” he says with a shrug. “I just felt weird about it.” Out of the corner of Richie’s eye he sees Beverly flinch and when he sees the way she pointedly stares at the dirty carpet of his bedroom, it all comes together in his mind. He gapes at her, feeling like a fucking idiot, before turning his shocked eyes back on Eddie.

“H-Hu-Who was it?” Bill stutters out, they all look at him in surprise, having not heard the stutter in a while. He flushes in embarrassment but his eyes stay locked on Eddie. Eddie meets his gaze, nearly digging a hole into one of his sleeves with his fidgeting. He is carefully keeping his gaze on Bill but Richie can see the way his eyes instinctively cut to Beverly briefly and he knows Bill sees it too because Bill’s head whips around to stare at her, looking betrayed.

“Why didn't you tell us?!” he asks.

“I wanted to!” she caves immediately, throwing her hands up in the air in exasperation. “God, I've wanted to do nothing but tell you guys,” she groans, Eddie goes pink, “But it wasn't for me to tell.” Her eyes meet Eddie's for the first time. When they make eye contact Eddie looks guilty.

“I thought…,” He starts hesitantly, “I thought if you guys knew it’d get weird and… and we’d… have to stop.” Eddies face is red to the tips of his ears at his confession.

“Oh,” Beverly breathes, looking pleasantly surprised. A pretty blush spreads over her cheeks and a slow smile breaks across her face, her expression relieved. Eddie smiles back. She stands and flops down on the bed beside him, tucking her legs in, uncaring that her bare feet are on Richie’s pillow, while she presses her cheek against Eddie’s leg where his shorts have ridden up, revealing where pale and tan skin clash. She hugs the arm that’s closest to her, curling their fingers together. It’s in that moment that Richie realizes just how weird his friends have been acting, uncharacteristically avoiding touching too much in the group’s presence, and he feels like the biggest dumbass.

“Yowza Eds!” he crows, cutting through the tension. “Finally getting your wick wet and it’s with the _purdiest_ girl in the whole darn world, man deserves a medal!” He cups his hands around his mouth and in his announcer voice says, “Ladies and Gents gather round to see the luckiest dang guy to grace this shitty town.” Eddie groans and covers his face with his free hand while Stan turns back around and settles into his previous position, his fingers now tickled by tendrils of Beverly’s hair that are splayed out on Eddie’s leg. Beverly grins and shimmies forward enough so that her nose is pressing into Stan’s curls, taking in the scent of his shampoo and cologne.

Stan smiles and leans his cheek more fully on the opposite side of the thigh Beverly is occupying so that the side of his head lightly knocks against her forehead. Beverly hums contentedly while Eddie stares down at the two, looking a little devastated. His free hand finds its way back into Stan’s hair. Instead of snapping at Richie to fuck off, he mumbles a quiet, emotion filled, “Yeah.”

Richie feels his chest get uncomfortably full. He crawls across the circle, nearly knocking the ashtray over and Ben’s beer with his gangly limbs. “Hey don’t hog the Spaghetti-Man,” he says, pulling himself up onto the bed on Eddie’s other side and flops onto his back unceremoniously. His ass is practically falling off, one leg thrown onto the bed, right on the edge of the drop while his other foot is flat on the ground, his knee a perfect right angle to keep himself from slipping off. It isn't particularly comfortable and his leg muscles are straining, but he stays put. He winks up at Eddie’s flat expression looking down at him. “Isn't his dick enough for you?”

“Beep Beep, Richie,” Eddie grumbles while Stan snorts.

“Oh it’s more than enough,” Beverly says into Stan’s hair, not moving from her position, “But it’s his fingers you really gotta watch out for.” Richie chokes on his own spit and he hears a collective sharp intake of breath from the other boys still sitting in the remains of the circle.

“For fuck’s sakes, Bev,” Eddie groans dropping his head back in embarrassment.

“Oh my God, you’re my favorite fucking person, Bev-Bear,” Richie praises, pretending to weep into his hands.

“Love you too,” she says, a grin in her voice. There's shuffling and when Richie turns his head to look, he finds Mike making his way over to their little pile on his knees. Richie grins at him.

“What?” Mike asks, pressing in beside Stan’s side closest to Beverly, “It looks nice.” He tucks himself against Stan’s shoulder, folding his legs under himself while he presses his face against the spot just above Eddie’s knee, he reaches up and wraps his hand around the ankle of that leg, massaging his thumb against the knob there.

“Welcome, Mikey-Boy,” Richie says grandly, “Mi Eddie, is Tu Eddie.” Eddie moves his hand from Stan’s hair and grips Richie’s waves tightly, giving it a tug in retaliation.

“Don’t offer me up, I’m not your pillow,” he growls. Richie tries to ignore the way that gesture makes his breath hitch and electricity radiate through his entire body.

The fucking 7 year olds in Eddie’s lap snicker.

Bill is next, crawling up to Stan. Stan peeks his eyes open when he feels Bill hovering. He releases Eddie’s knees long enough to grip Bill’s hips and pull him down so he’s straddling Stan’s waist, sitting in his lap. Mike wordlessly shifts his legs a little to make room for Bill’s knee. Bill flushes but smiles when Stan gives him a reassuring look before putting his head back down, closing his eyes again, and wrapping his arms loosely around Bill’s waist, gripping his own left wrist with his right hand behind Bill’s back to keep his arms in place.

Bill presses in close, his arms tucked up between his and Stan’s chests. He's too tall to tuck his face against Stan’s neck at this angle so he presses his face and forehead against the soft flesh of Eddie’s inner thigh. Eddie flushes and shivers when warm breath skims across his skin.

Ben is the last to move, pressing into Stan’s other side, mirroring Mike’s position. Beverly releases Eddie’s hand to run her nails over Mike and Stan’s scalps gently. Eddie, who is now combing his fingers through Richie’s hair gently, reached over with his free hand to run his fingers through Bill’s fiery red hair. Bill blows out a contented sigh against Eddie’s thigh.

“Everyone’s hair is so _soft_ , what the actual _fuck_ ,” Eddie grumbles with feeling.

Richie laughs while he pulls out his last joint and the lighter he always has. He lights it easily from his position on his back, breathing in slowly, conserving it. He stares up into Eddie’s eyes through his insanely thick glasses, Eddie stares back, his fingers not stopping their ministration. Richie reaches up, holding the unlit end to Eddie’s lips wordlessly. He watches with fascination as Eddie takes a much more selfish drag, filling his lungs to the brim before releasing the smoke right into Richie’s face. The smell burns Richie’s nose but he doesn't give a shit because there’s something passing between them that makes his stomach flip and when Eddie’s eyes darken while he’s biting his lips and the blown irises flick quickly over Richie’s face, Richie wants to scream.

Richie flops his joint holding arm to the side over the edge of the bed in Ben’s direction, silently offering Ben the next hit. Ben takes it and takes a slow drag while he runs the pad of his index finger along Eddie’s leg hair, looking hypnotized. He passes it to Bill next who leans away from Eddie’s leg and Stan’s chest to carefully avoid burning either of them. Stan’s eyes are open, his eyes zero in on Bill’s lips like he wants to lean in and suck the smoke from his lungs and only social convention is keeping him from doing so.

Richie doesn't see any of this, completely enthralled in the weird stare off happening between him and Eddie. Eddie brushes a loose bang from Richie’s forehead. His eyes are blood shot and have trouble staying fully open, his face is red and he seems unable to stop smiling, he looks high as a fucking kite and he’s so fucking _gorgeous_.

“Hey, Eddie,” Bill says quietly, drawing Eddie’s attention and effectively ending the moment when Eddie breaks eye contact. “You have a lash,” he points out, his fingers already reaching. Eddie grins, slow and lazy and obediently leans forward, eyes closed, and his stomach pressing into the back of Stan’s head.

“Thanks, Big Bill,” Eddie mumbles, while Bill’s soft fingers graze his cheek.

“Yeah, thanks Big Bill,” Mike parrots in a teasing tone and the group starts snickering knowingly while Eddie frowns in confusion and Bill goes bright red.

“F-Fuck you guys,” he grumbles, stuffing his face against Eddie’s leg roughly, making them laugh harder and only furthering Eddie’s confusion. Richie is still laughing when he shifts, moving himself so that his body is more fully on the bed and forming a nearly perfect right angle, with his head and Eddie’s hip acting as the corner. He shimmies himself around, until Eddie’s hip is nearly touching his throat. He crosses his arms over his chest, tucks his knees up to his stomach and stuffs his face into the space between Eddie’s stomach and the top of his thigh, right near the joint of his leg. Richie’s chin digs uncomfortably into his own sternum and he will probably have a crick in his neck later, but he lets out a contented sigh, his body going lax while Eddie’s fingers find their way back into his coarse black hair. He takes a deep breath, taking in the comforting smell of weed and Eddie while his mind drifts.

“My feet are going numb,” Eddie mumbles with the joint back in his fingers. No one moves. “Well fine, but I’m keepin’ this.”

* * *

 

Richie remembers debating with Bill a few years back about what a “religious experience” is, it always seemed like a positive thing but the closest thing to a religious experience Richie can think of is the deep fear and guilt he’d felt as a kid while his priest preached about hellfire and sin. So they asked their friends. Stan shrugged and talked about anxiously reading from the Torah in front his friends and family while he tried not to piss his pants with fear. They asked Mike and he said it’s sitting in church and singing hymns as a community. When they asked Eddie he mumbled something about being afraid of blood in the toilet before he became flustered and told Richie to fuck off. Ben just went red in the face and kept his mouth clamped shut. Richie had felt like Ben was the one who had the answer they were looking for but he wasn't cracking, so they moved on. When they asked Beverly, she had frowned deeply with a crease between her brows and shrugged.

They never did find their answer. But now, sitting in his bedroom with Beverly, smoking a blunt and playing hooky, he thinks he might. It’s the first time they've been alone in a while and he’s not wasting the opportunity to ask the question that’s been burning in his throat since Eddie’s confession.

He takes a slow inhale, glancing at her lounging against his pillows with her sketch book and a pencil. He’s leaning up against his bedroom wall with his legs stretched out in front of him and his ankles crossed while Beverly’s legs are draped over his lap. He feigns casualness. In reality, he’s been glancing at his alarm clock every few seconds, waiting for it to flip to exactly 12:43. They would have been sitting here for exactly an hour and 3 minutes. He didn't want to seem too eager or obvious.

“So…, how was it?” he asks, tone carefully neutral, as the smoke drifts from between his lips. Beverly doesn't seem too concerned by the question, taking the joint back when he offers it, making a humming noise in question. “Eddie.”

Beverly finally looks up from her sketchbook and sits up straight, setting the book aside. She crosses her legs, adjusting her skirt around her knees. They’re close enough that her knees are pressing into the side of Richie’s right leg and her expression is suddenly serious. Richie feels vaguely concerned. She’s holding the joint to her lips and takes a hit, staring down at her lap thoughtfully.

She blows out the smoke and looks him in the eyes. “Like a religious experience,” she settles on. Richie still doesn't understand what that means, but somehow he knows she’s using it correctly. He swallows with a click while she stubs out the joint.

“Tell me,” he finds himself saying, his eyes large, even more so behind his glasses. She laughs and shakes her head and looks like she’s going to move on but he scoops her up and begins littering her with kisses on every available strip of skin he can reach. “Come on, come on, Beverly you gotta tell me, you just gotta,” he whispers urgently in her ear, wrapping his long arms around her while she giggles and pushes at his shoulders. She tries to resist his begging but then he has her on her back with his hands sliding slowly up her hips, bunching her skirt up around her waist and she can’t resist whispering right into his ear how pretty Eddie had looked.

He groans and begs her to describe it. He moves his kisses to her throat, taking his time so he can hear every detail. He gasps, rocking his hips against her when she describes the graceful curve of his spine when he had pressed against her hips. His fingers brush the top of her panties and her breath hitches while she’s describing how he’d gripped her hips and ground her down on his thigh. She’s beginning to lose herself in it, he could see it in the way her legs wrapped around his hips like a vice.

“He told me,” she whispers, breathless, “About what he thinks about you guys.” Richie hums, struggling to focus on what she’s talking about while his face is practically planted in her chest and he’s unhooking her bra. “When he’s alone,” she adds, looking down at him with mirth in her eyes. Richie stills instantly, he looks at her, eyes wide. He surges up and kisses her roughly, slipping his hand down between her legs, shivering at the moist heat there.

“Tell me,” he growls, circling her clit with the pad of his middle finger. She grips his shoulders and gasps, arching her back.

While she tells him about what Eddie thought of Bill, she’s undoing his jeans. When she tells him about Ben, they’re pulling off Richie’s shirt. When she gets to Mike, he’s sliding on the condom and he feels like he’s going to blow. While she tells him about Stan, his laugh is cut off by a choked moan as he pushes in and her fingernails dig into his back sharply. She arches her hips and whimpers while she describes what he thought of her, how she’d felt so loved and worshiped, like she might shake apart. He thrusts into her in earnest now, her words dissolving into nothing but gasps and moans. She slides her fingers into his sweat damp hair and grips it tight, pulling roughly, until he loses his rhythm and his hips stutter. She presses her lips right up against his ear.

At first she can only gasp and pant wetly there, his glasses rubbing uncomfortably against her head from where they’re hanging on the very edge of Richie’s nose with only some miracle keeping them on, but then she finds a second of composure.

Just enough to get out, “Your fingers.” Richie grits his teeth and releases a drawn out groan as his orgasm hits him abruptly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried so hard to make what I visualized clear, especially positioning, so I hope that came across instead of just making it too wordy @_@
> 
> Stan is a human gazelle. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed, please tell me what you think!


	7. Farmer's Market

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wut up it's ya boi
> 
> Warnings: Implied/referenced racism and mild antisemitism
> 
> I wasn't sure how to depict Mike and honestly I'm more excited to explore him now :,) (and his ma!)
> 
> Fun Fact: All my title's are the very first thing I picked when I wrote them. I secretly hope they'll get weirder.

            Mike sighs, leaning back in the fold out chair he's sitting in behind his family’s booth. The smell of fruits and vegetables are all around him. It’s late Saturday morning and the farmer’s market is fairly packed, a good amount of the produce now sold and a wad of cash in the lock-box he has chained to one of the legs of the table housing the eggs and milk. His mother usually runs this portion of the business while Mike worked the farm, but today she's at home sick with a cold.

            He hadn't wanted to leave her alone, but she’d insisted she’d be alright. The doubts that had been plaguing him for years now are rearing their ugly heads again, thoughts of how unrealistic his friends’ future plans are, but he shakes them out and turns back to the book open on his lap, a book of diary entries salvaged from the French Revolution. He glances up every few words, checking for any customers he may be unintentionally ignoring. His eyes drift to the booth a few over, just at the edge of his sight. It’s a fish market now, but in his mind’s eye he can still see Butch Bowers glaring at him and his father, while a small Henry Bowers mirrored his aggressive behavior. He still gets those looks from time to time. Butch and Henry may have been the worst of the bunch but this is still a tiny town filled with even tinier minds. He thinks about Henry rotting away in Juniper Hill and Butch’s picture plastered in the local paper, describing his gruesome murder at the hands of his only son. This brings up thoughts of the other murders Henry had pinned on him, the one’s that had been committed by an ancient creature that he and his friends had defeated. He’s completely zoned out, his thoughts spiraling beyond his control, and his gaze is still locked on the fisherman. He doesn't even notice the man shuffling uncomfortably and anxiously whispering something to his partner.

            He jerks and gasps when there’s suddenly someone in his lap. Instead of jumping away like most would, his arms immediately wrap around the waist of the intruder to hold them more firmly in place so they don’t fall. Not exactly a good instinct to have in the long run. He’s definitely going to blame his friends the day he ends up accidentally cuddling a mugger. When he looks up, he finds himself with a face full of red hair and a nose stuffed with familiar perfume. A grin immediately spreads across his face and his arms squeeze tight around Beverly’s waist while she laughs.

            He knows if his mama were here, she’d get that crease in her brow and her eyes would get shifty. She has constantly warned him about getting too handsy with his friends in public. It was shockingly devoid of judgment, instead laced with fear and allusions to what happened to black boys who got too cozy with white folk, especially white women. It’s hard to remember her words now with Beverly’s warm body against his chest and her face pressing into his shoulder.

            “Scared the shit out of me, girly,” he mumbles. She laughs and presses an apology kiss to his cheek. When he peeks over her shoulder he can see fish guy now staring at them, unrestrained disgust on his face. Mike feels his stomach drop, his mother’s words coming to the surface of his mind and he moves her off his lap as gently as he can. He stands and lets her take over his seat while he digs up another fold out, keeping a careful distance between their chairs.

            “Stan is here too, I left him bartering with a butcher,” she says pointing off to the left of the booth, “Everyone else is being lame.” Mike laughs. He stands when someone asks for prices on corn. A number of other customers crowd his booth and by the time Stan is appearing around the bend with a pound of meat packaged in thick paper under his arm, Mike has already made 5 different sales and Beverly is now standing beside him, packaging things in paper bags and handing out handwritten receipts.

            Stan slips in behind the booth with comfortable familiarity and places his purchase in the cooler Mike always keeps stocked with waters and snacks. Mike takes a minute to smile brightly at Stan, whose looking as perfectly put together as ever in a crisp polo tucked into his khaki slacks instead of his usual button up. He wants to reach over and pull Stan in close and take in the scent of his ever-present cologne, but he’s already let himself be ‘too cozy’ with Bev so he settles for a short ‘manly’ hug.

            The two help Mike until there’s no one left and even more of their stock is gone. They lounge in the fold up chairs with Mike in the center and his friends on either side of him. He eyes what’s left and quietly hopes they’ll sell out early so he can leave with his friends and spend the rest of the day somewhere away from prying eyes. He’s already on the cusp of just cutting the selling day short when a girl he vaguely recognizes from his school walks up to look at the produce. Her eyes drift and she stares at Beverly’s loose flowery blouse, one that reveals her shoulders and a flash of cleavage. She frowns and grimaces, eyeing her exposed skin distastefully but keeps her mouth shut. However, she takes one look at Stan, and without preamble asks, "Aren't you worried about going to hell when you die? Being Jewish and all?"

            Mike is completely knocked for a loop and Beverly’s mouth is hanging open. Before either of them can respond, Stan, without missing a beat flatly replies, “Not really, you’re here so I figure I must already be there.” She sputters, ugly red heat spotting her cheeks and she turns away, mumbling something that sounds like a crack about Jewish people deserving to rot. Rage boils under Mike’s skin and he wants to stick his foot out from under the table and send her sprawling.

            “Fuck you too, bitch!” Beverly yells after her, leaping from her seat and effectively drawing everyone’s attention. Stan drops his face into his hand immediately, mortification filling him while a mother covers her child’s ears and steers them away with an appalled expression.

            “And _that_ is the cue to leave,” Mike announces, standing and beginning to pack away the remaining product. Beverly doesn’t look the least bit guilty, only angry, aggressively shoving tomatoes into a crate. Stan is still sitting in his chair with his face hidden, only standing when he feels assured most of the attention is off of them. He goes up behind Beverly, grips her tense shoulders tightly and presses a firm kiss to the side of her head. He pulls away when her shoulders slump a little under his hands and she finally looks at him with guilt in her eyes. They all know how much Stan hates being embarrassed in public.

            He begins packing the few dairy products left into the cooler beside the meat he’s purchased.

            “Don’t regret it though,” Beverly mumbles, picking up one of the crates, ignoring Mike when he tries to take it from her. It takes two trips to put everything in the truck and then they grab Stan’s bike from where he’s locked it to the bike rack at the front of the park and tucks it into the bed of the Hanlon family truck. They squeeze into the front, with Beverly in the middle and Stan in the passenger seat. He waits for them to put on their seatbelts before putting the car into reverse. He puts his arm behind Beverly’s seat to turn around while he backs up. Now that they are comfortably alone, he leaves his arm there as he drives. He sees Beverly lace her and Stan’s fingers together.

            Stan squeezes her hand and stares out with his arm propped up on the sill while his eyes flick over the trees. Beverly tucks her head against Mike’s side, her cheek against his pec while he drives with one hand. A comfortable silence settles over them. Beverly seems lost in thought, something that isn't usually a call for concern, but then she says, “I think I should tell you guys something.”

            Mike glances from the road briefly with a frown, removing his arm from around her when she sits up fully. He grip the wheel with both hands now, the warm leather squeaking. Stan looks at her fully.

            “It’s about Eddie…,” she tacks on, appearing ashamed and uncertain, like she isn’t sure if she should say it.

            “Tell us,” Stan says, his voice leaving no room for argument, eyes intense.

            Beverly immediately spills her guts, or more so, Eddie’s guts. Laying out that day, the one Mike barely even remembers because it was one of many spent together, and what Eddie said to her on his birthday while the rest of them had been wrapped up in their fun, how he’d hyperventilate when her fingers got too close to the hem of his sweater, what he’d admitted to her when they were alone and Eddie was sleepy and without a filter, sniffling quietly, about his mother’s harsh words and his own feelings of inadequacies.

            Mike’s stomach drops. They sit in the truck, long since parked in front of the farm house while Beverly admonishes herself over and over for not noticing sooner. They all knew that Eddie was self-conscious about his body, but they hadn't realized how bad it was. Or how much his mother had played a role in it, how much _they_ had unknowingly played a role in it.

            Stan is pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes closed tight.

            “You can’t tell him I told you,” Beverly blurts out, effectively cutting into the heavy silence that had settled over them. “He’ll never trust me again,” she says, staring at her lap.

            “We _have_ to!” Stan turns on her, his voice loud. “We can’t just let him go on thinking that he’s…,” Stan’s jaw clenches tightly, eyes blazing. Beverly glares back.

            “You’re the one who wants to pretend we’re all so _normal_ ,” she bites back, her anger misguided, “How’re you planning to make him understand, huh? Give him some placating bullshit about how pretty he is that’s just gonna make him feel pitied and embarrassed?” Stan’s face grows dark before an eerily neutral expression comes crashing down over his features. He forcefully whips his seatbelt off and throws the door open before crawling out. Mike quickly follows suit, walking around the truck without closing his door. He intercepts Stan’s long strides towards the bed of the truck, Stan is already reaching for his bike, his movements sharp and aggressive.

            Mike grabs Stan’s wrist and the angry man yanks it free immediately, his mask breaking.

            “God, _what?_ ” Stan barks, the sound of Mike’s truck door slamming echoing behind them. Beverly is at their sides a second later, her arms crossed over her chest, looking conflicted, flipping between anger and guilt.

            Mike grabs Stan’s shoulders instead, holding them tight and staring deeply into his eyes. “It’s not just your fault, we all fucked up,” he says just as firm as the grip he had on him. Stan’s teeth clench but then a look of deep upset sweeps over him and he stuffs his face into Mike’s shoulder. Mike clutches him close, rubbing heavy slow circles into Stan’s back.

            Beverly comes up behind Stan and presses against his back, hands on his hips and her nose digging into his bony shoulder blade. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles quietly.

            “You guys _know_ , right?” Stan’s shaky muffled voice asks. Mike stills his back rub. It’s an intentionally vague question, but when Mike shares a look with Beverly over Stan’s shoulder, he knows they both understood what Stan is saying. It’s the closest Stan has ever come to verbally acknowledging the _thing_ between them all. Beverly wraps her arms more fully around Stan’s waist.

            “Yeah, we know,” Mike tells him gently.

            “We know,” Beverly echoes, pressing a kiss to the back of his exposed arm, just above his elbow, attempting to avoid leaving a lipstick stain on his polo.

            Mike looks at his family home, still cradling the taller man against his shoulder. In his mind’s eye he can see his mother laying up in bed, sniffling, with a book in her hand and the ghost of his father lounging in the empty spot beside her. He imagines Eddie, tugging nervously at his clothes, covering up, imagines the days when he wears his stiff jeans and his itchy polos, how lost he looks, and Mike feels those doubts that have been plaguing him since the day his friends put out the idea to move out of Derry together, leave him suddenly and completely.

            “We gotta get out of this town,” he says softly.

            They stand there for a few minutes before Stan finally pulls away and discreetly wipes under his eyes, “Did you tell any of the other guys?”

            Beverly shakes her head, “I almost told Richie,” she admits, looking embarrassed, “Then I realized….”    

            “That he would have leapt out of the nearest window and hunted Eddie down like a caveman?” Stan asks, expression flat as he looks over his shoulder at her.

            “Not exactly the image I had in mind but basically,” she replies, taking a step back out of Stan’s space.

            “So, why tell us?” Mike asks, “Why not Bill or Ben?”

            Beverly shrugs rubbing her upper arm, “I don’t know I just… can’t stand keeping things from any of you and this was something important,” she explains, looking uncertain. “Maybe part of me thought you guys would know what to do.”

            “What _can_ we do?” Stan asks, “You were right, if we try to talk to him about it, he’ll think we’re babying him and he’ll end up feeling angry and resentful.”

            “Maybe this is just something he’s gotta figure out on his own,” Mike put out there, the words leaving a sour taste on his tongue. He stares down at his feet with his arms crossed over his chest, “You can’t force someone to have better self-esteem. We know that better than most.” He’s looking at Beverly when he says this and she frowns deeply.

            “Should we tell the others?” Beverly asks.

            “I think… Eddie should tell them in his own time and if it gets… worse we’ll say something to him,” Mike replies.

            “How could it get worse?” Stan asks. Beverly and Mike lock eyes again and frown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I only post these when I'm stoned. What's up with that?
> 
> Bev is pretty shit with secrets and Stan is a sassy bitch.
> 
> Next chapter is based on a thing I thought of way earlier on in making this so I'm pretty stoked and ya'll are gonna meet Maggie which I'm also excited about~~
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! Please comment! Honestly, it fuels me. I love when people kudo and subscribe but comments are like my life blood.


	8. Tattoos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Panic Attack
> 
> Alternate title: The One Where The Author Is A Cliché SAP
> 
> Here's a long af chapter so you can be anti-social and get through awkward family dinners this holiday season!
> 
> I should probably have edited this more but *Dab* it's 3am and I have no self control.

            On Richie’s 18th birthday, the last of them to reach adulthood, he goes to Eddie and asks him to drive him somewhere 'kind of far'. Despite not knowing the destination, Eddie already knows he’s going to say yes. He never turns down a chance to drive. Not since he was 13 and Bill had clutched his mother’s stolen car keys in his shaking fist, determined but terrified to drive to his father’s new place nearly 2 hours away.

            He remembers standing there with Ben and Richie, the three of them feeling shaken by Bill’s distress and his horrible plan. All of them, even Richie, had been trying desperately to get the idea out of his mind. He’d yelled at them, with tears and snot running down his face, that he was going with or without them. Eddie had immediately snatched up the keys with familiar guilt rattling his bones and told them to keep their fucking seatbelts on and their mouths shut.

            He’d driven exceptionally careful. He watched the speed dial and changed lanes as minimally as possible while holding the wheel in a death grip. There had been absolute silence in the car because if anyone but Ben, their navigator, so much as opened their mouth to speak, Eddie would snap at them. Richie had made the mistake of reaching over the middle panel from the backseat for the radio dial and received a firm slap on the hand for his efforts. He’d never felt more terrified and _free_ in his life. The knowledge that he could go anywhere, take his _friends_ anywhere, felt like power. He’d taken to it like a fish to water despite how much he struggled to see over the steering wheel.

            Their parents had been furious, even Bill’s dad who had cried at the sight of his son after weeks of absence. Bill still says it was the last time he can remember his father being genuinely happy to see him. Only a few months after that, Bill’s father married a woman with a small daughter. He had a new ready-made family to help him forget everything to do with Georgie, including Bill. Eddie thinks the guilt of it all might just kill him one day.

            Eddie’s mother had almost cut him off from his friends completely after that incident. She went as far as to change her work schedule so she could pick him up straight after school every day, put locks on the windows, and never let him leave the house. She even threatened to move them across the country, but Eddie was having none of it. He’d stared her down over his untouched dinner plate for days, his eyes sunken in and exhausted, but blazing with resolve. Even his friends crowded around him at lunch had gotten him to eat only a few bites of their food before he was pushing them away and declaring even that little would let her win. A few days into his protest, he’d nearly tripped down the stairs when his vision had swirled with fatigue. She cried and begged him to eat, she listed all the health problems that could arise from malnutrition and she'd finally agreed she wouldn't keep his friends away. He'd stuffed 2 turkey sandwiches down his throat that nearly made him sick and slept for 10 straight hours.

            It’s a little ironic that only a few years later she would hypocritically begin to make snide comments about his weight.

            He got his Restricted on his 14th birthday, much to his mother’s despair, and his license a few days after his 16th. When he was at his lowest he’d think about just getting in his mother’s car and disappearing, instead he’d call one of his friends, usually Mike or Bill, and he’d feel more settled inside his own skin.

            He's almost always the designated driver, especially since Richie and Bill still don’t have a license. He griped about it sometimes, mostly for show. Now, with Richie practically vibrating in the passenger seat of Stan’s borrowed car, looking nervous but excited, he’s not feeling much like griping.

            The windows are down and there’s music blaring from the speakers while the wind whips their hair. Richie makes fun of him for some of the pop songs Eddie puts on but laughs at Eddie’s obnoxiously loud off-key singing and joins in with his much more practiced voice. Eddie watches Richie carefully count out his wad of cash at least twice during the 2 and a half hour trip and when Eddie asks where the hell they’re going, Richie just gives him a mock spooky grin and says in his Wicked Witch of the West voice, “You’ll see my pretty.” Eddie rolls his eyes but a smile pulls at his lips.

            When they pull into a city landscape, they stare around in wonderment having never been out of their tiny town. Eddie screeches to a halt when Richie starts smacking his arm and yelling at him to stop the car. When he looks, they’re idling in front of a small plaza with a butcher and a hardware store with a shop in between them that has a sign that says ‘Ray’s Tattoo and Piercings Parlor’. Suddenly it all clicks into place. He gives Richie a flat look.

            “Seriously?” Eddie asks, Richie just gives him a bright grin in return. Eddie flicks off the guy behind him who’s laying on his horn and turns into the small plaza. He parks and Richie is sprinting into the building before Eddie even has the key out of the ignition.

            When he walks in, there’s a rock band he doesn't recognize playing from a stereo on a nearby counter. It looks grungy and the guy that Richie is talking to is absolutely covered in piercings and has tattoos running along his throat that disappear into his shirt. Eddie eyes the place, questioning the cleanliness of it. He can’t help imagining how Stan would react to being in a place like this and it’s… a surprisingly violent image. There'd be blood. He walks up beside Richie and curiously looks over his shoulder but Richie covers whatever notebook he’s showing the man.

            “No peeking!” he yells over his shoulder childishly. The man behind the counter waits with a bored expression. Eddie makes an annoyed noise but moves away and drops himself into one of the fold out chairs that are set out near the door as a makeshift waiting area. Richie squints at Eddie in exaggerated suspicion before turning back to the man behind the counter and opening the notebook again. The two spend a few minutes bowed together talking and pointing at various pages before he’s snapping the book shut and handing the man his School ID, a photo copy of his birth certificate, and a hefty portion of his cash wad. The man behind the desk heads towards the back where 2 people, a man and woman covered in tattoos, are chatting.

            Richie walks over to where Eddie has closed his eyes and dropped his head back, clearly exhausted by the drive. “Uh,” Richie says, causing Eddie to jerk up, winch, and rub the tight muscles of his neck. “It’s gonna be a few hours,” Richie tells Eddie, looking genuinely apologetic. A rare look for the Trashmouth.

            “A few _hours_?” Eddie asks, jumping to his feet, anger abruptly filling his veins. “What _exactly_ are you getting done?” He imagines Richie’s flawless freckled face covered in piercings or a massive face tattoo and blanches. “ _What are you getting done?_ ” he asks again, his voice cracking with panic.

            Richie grabs Eddie’s shoulders and hugs him tight, pressing Eddie’s forehead against his collarbone. “Hey, hey, chill,” Richie reassures him quickly, “It’s not anything too crazy, tattoos just… take longer than I thought.”

            “Oh god… a tattoo,” Eddie groans, Richie’s soft black band shirt muffling his voice, and his arms go limp at his sides. The bored clerk watches them, appearing impatient but curious. “Piercings at least close up.”

            Richie laughs, “They’re not gonna be _that_ bad.”

            Eddie jerks back with a horrified expression, “ _THEY_?!” he screeches. Richie grabs Eddie by the back of the head and roughly stuffs Eddie's face against his chest again while petting at Eddie’s wavy hair in an attempt to soothe the furious creature in his arms. Eddie squirms and punches at Richie’s chest.

            “Look, you’ll love ‘em, okay?” Richie promises when Eddie finally escapes, “I owe you.” He pulls out the much smaller cash wad from his pocket and shoves it into Eddie’s hands, startling him. “It’s gonna be a while, why don’t you look around town or grab something to eat? My treat!”

            “Tozier!” the clerk calls from the back of the shop after losing patience with the strange duo and points to the male artist whose moving around his station, prepping what he’ll need for his work.

            “See ya on the other side, Eds” Richie says, saluting at him and heading for the chair he’s been designated before Eddie has a chance to talk him out of it.

            “Not my name!” Eddie calls out, flicking off Richie’s back. Eddie throws himself back into the chair he’s claimed as his own with a dramatic huff, arms crossed over his chest, quietly cursing himself for going along with one of Richie’s half-baked plans. The artist greets Richie but they’re too far away for Eddie to hear. Richie grins and shakes the tattooed man’s hand and does the same to the woman who’s just within reach. He seems normal but Eddie knows the subtle stiffness in Richie’s shoulders.

            He sits in the Artist’s chair, shoots Eddie a smile and a thumbs up, before the tattooed man pulls a curtain around them to give them some privacy. Eddie sighs, anxiously tapping his foot. A few minutes later he hears the tattoo gun come to life and jumps in his seat. He pats the wad in his pocket and contemplates taking up Richie’s offer to go find food but the thought of Richie alone in this place keeps him rooted to the spot.

            About an hour in, he’s too tired to really feel anxious anymore. He’s flipping through a magazine that's entire purpose is to showcase tattoos and piercings. Some of the intricate pieces keep his attention and waste some time but he finds a picture of a woman hanging from hooks in her back and his stomach turns so he closes it and tucks it away. He hears a feminine laugh and when he looks up, the tattooed woman is leaning against the front counter. She’s bleach blond and gorgeous with tattoos all over her arms and exposed legs and she’s at least 15 years older than him. She’s got multiple piercings in each ear and a piercing in her septum that looks like one of those circular pieces that bulls have in their noses. He’s surprised that something he’d been taught was gaudy and ugly actually seemed attractive against her olive skin and sharp face.

            “See the Suspension stuff, did ya?” she asks, sipping from her water bottle. Eddie grimaces.

            “Unfortunately,” Eddie replies. She chuckles and sits on the edge of the seat next to him. His glances down at the massive tattoo on her right leg that's now close enough for him to take in the intricate details. It is an extremely well done portrait of a gorgeous woman with large lips and sultry eyes. He’d always thought himself to believe tattoos were a turn off, but he can easily imagine Beverly’s body adorned in a similar way and finds his cheeks flushing.

            “That your man in there?” she asks, gesturing towards the curtain. Eddie’s eyes snap up and relief fills him when he finds she’s not looking at him. His heart leaps with anxiety.

            “No!” Eddie blurts out a little too quickly, “Of course not!” She gives him a pitying look that makes Eddie want to shrink in on himself.

            “Well he seemed pretty excited,” she says, “Took a peek, they’ll probably be a good couple of hours.” Eddie groans and flops his head back with exasperation.

            “Bored?” she asks next.

            “ _Incredibly_.” A silence stretches between them, and for a second, Eddie thinks that’s the end of it.

            “I could give you a tat,” she offers suddenly with a shrug of her shoulders, “Or a piercing.”

            Eddie stares at her incredulously before dragging his eyes pointedly over his own outfit. His stupid ET sweatshirt, his loose jorts, and his squeaky clean white sneakers contrast sharply with the dark themes of the location and its occupants. Slap a backwards cap on Eddie’s head and give him a skateboard that he doesn't know how to ride and he could pass for one of those ‘Cool’ teens usually found in children’s PSAs that learn some lesson about not stealing. Definitely not someone who looks like they have a tattoo or piercing.

            The woman rolls her eyes, “It’s not limited to people who look a certain way. Tattoos can be silly or meaningful, simple or intricate. It’s a personal thing,” she explains, “Some people have said it makes them feel like they have more control, being able to make decisions about what their body looks like.” Eddie wonders if she somehow knows how close to home those words hit him, like maybe it’s written on his forehead somewhere. Eddie rubs the fabric of his sleeve between his thumb and index finger for a few long minutes while he thinks it over.

            “Do you have any pictures of your work?” Eddie asks. She grins.

            Hours later when Richie _finally_ comes from behind the curtain with bandages covering different areas of his body, the wad Eddie was given is lighter, his sternum feels like it’s on fire, and his left ear is throbbing where a stud is now sitting heavily in his lobe. He’d been careful to keep himself quiet despite the immense pain. Jen, the tattoo artist, had told him in no uncertain terms that chest tattoos were incredibly painful and shouldn't be done on first timers. He’d offered her an extra fifty with hard resolve in his eyes. She’d waved it off with a sigh and agreed. It was quick and simple, but the level of pain had made it feel like an eternity. He’d lain shirtless and vulnerable with one of the sleeves of his sweater stuffed in his mouth. His fingers had dug into the cushioned arms of the chair with tears clinging to his lashes. He never cried out or told her to stop.

            Richie looks at him with exhausted happy eyes as he approaches, unaware of the new additions to Eddie’s person. Eddie stands and Richie lifts his arms like he wants to pull Eddie into a hug, but it must tug at something because he winches and lowers his arms back down. Eddie frowns sympathetically.

            “How was it?” he asks, glancing at the bandages on each of Richie’s wrists and the larger ones he can see on his calves.

            “A fucking killer, but I went for less sensitive spots so coulda been worse,” he says with a shrug that also makes him winch. He moves into Eddie’s space and Eddie stops himself from taking a step back when their chests nearly brush. Richie bends down and rests his forehead against Eddie’s shoulder. “I’m so happy, Eds,” he sighs against Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie can see a bump under Richie’s shirt where he’s sure there’s a bandage on his shoulder and resists the urge to rest his head there. He instead presses his cheek against Richie’s slightly stubbly one and breathes in deeply, the familiar scent of weed and Richie’s sharp body wash overpowering the thick smell of the tattoo parlor. He doesn't correct the nickname.

            “That’s good,” he replies quietly, placing a hand on the back of Richie’s head. Richie pulls back a little.

            “Let’s get out of here,” he says, excitement in his eyes, “I’ll show you them when we get back.”

            “Everything has to be so fucking dramatic with you,” Eddie grumbles, tucking his hands into his short’s pockets.

            They say their goodbyes to the three workers. Richie and his artist, Nick, agree to call each other. Jen slips Eddie her number and tells him to do the same, saying something about Eddie having moxie and reminding her of her own son. They go through a drive-thru before getting back on the road. Richie feeds Eddie fries while he’s driving and resists the urge to peel off any of his bandages. He doesn't notice the stud in Eddie’s ear.

            When they pull up to Richie’s house, the sun has been set for hours and Richie’s porch light is still on. Richie immediately flies out and is circling to Eddie’s side of the car, trying to hurry him along so he can finally show Eddie his new ink. Eddie laughs and rolls his eyes when Richie has his door open and is pulling at his arm before Eddie has even gotten his seatbelt off. Stan’s car dings angrily at him to close the door while the light on the ceiling of the car throws harsh shadows over his face.

            “Let me at least turn the damn car off,” he huffs, pulling his seat belt off before reaching for the key. Richie stops his pulling abruptly.

            “Is that a fucking piercing?” Richie asks, his voice loud and echoing in the dark empty street. Eddie pulls the key out and turns to Richie with a sheepish smile.

            “Uh yeah,” Eddie replies.

            “’Uh yeah’!?” Richie yells back.

            “Keep it down!” Eddie hisses, standing and pushing Richie back so he can get out of the driver’s seat. He looks around at the neighboring houses quickly, keeping an eye out for any lights flicking on or curtains shifting. Suddenly, his face is being manhandled. Richie is turning his head to the side so he can get a good look at Eddie's swollen earlobe and the simple black stud there. Out of the corner of his eye, Eddie can see Richie’s mouth hanging open. “It’s not that big a deal!”

            Richie abruptly straightens Eddie’s head again, rocking Eddie’s tired brain around in his skull, so that he's looking into Eddie’s eyes with the boy’s cheeks squished between his hands. “Excuse my fucking French but Mr. ‘Piercings are for drug addicts’ has a buttfucking earing.”

            “Tone it the _fuck_ down,” Eddie demands, pulling Richie’s hands away from his face. Richie’s shocked expression stays firmly in place. Then suddenly he’s pulling Eddie into an embrace that has them both hissing in pain. Eddie’s reaction is much more violent, pushing Richie away roughly. Richie stumbles back and stares at him with wide eyes and he watches where Eddie’s hands are hovering indecisively over the left side of his sternum and now Richie notices a subtle misshapen lump under ET’s face.

            “What the _fuck_?” Richie whispers, his hands start flapping around and he spins in a full 360. “ _Eddie_ , what the fuck is _happening_?! You got a tattoo!?”

            “You were the one who said it’s not a big deal!” he yells back, deflecting.

            “ _Eddie_!”

            “Fine! Yes! Jesus!” Eddie confesses, his shoulders beginning to relax now that the pain is subsiding. He rubs the edge of the bandage under his sweater. Richie puts his hands flat together, palm to palm, and rests the side of his stiff fingers to his closed lips, finger tips brushing his nose as he breathes in deeply through his nose with his eyes closed. He opens them wide, magnified by his glasses, and moves his hands in Eddie’s direction at a sharp 45 degree angle, bending at the wrists. Eddie waits patiently for whatever Richie has to say.

            “Huwhat the fuck?” Richie asks, his voice tight. Eddie slaps his forehead and drops his head forward.

            “We gotta go clean them,” Eddie decides, closing the driver door and locking it before grabbing the still confused Richie’s wrist and tugs him towards the front door. He fishes into Richie’s pocket for the house keys without asking and unlocks the front door. He pulls Richie in and shuts the door behind them. He can hear the TV in the living room and when they pass the opening, he can see Richie’s father passed out in his recliner and Richie’s mother in a pale pink robe knitting on the couch while using a small side table lamp for light. She looks up and grins when she spots Eddie.

            “Eddie,” she greets, unconcerned with the volume of her voice. Her husband doesn't stir. Eddie steers away from the stairs and instead tugs Richie towards the living room. Even after 10 O’clock at night, Maggie Tozier looks perfectly put together. Her dyed blond hair is in a controlled bun on her head and her make up looks perfect, covering the familiar freckles he knows line her nose and cheeks. Maggie has often been on the bad end of his mother’s scathing gossip, jealousy making her spiteful. Eddie has lost count of how many times he’s wished she was his mother. Eddie lets go of Richie in order to move closer and leans in, brushing a greeting kiss to her cheek while she does the same to his.

            When he pulls away she gives him a fond smile and takes a loose hold of his hand before turning her eyes on her son who is shuffling his feet in the entrance way. She frowns and eyes the bandages she sees. Eddie can see the crease between her brows and wrinkles forming around her eyes. He can see an argument brewing but knows she won’t do it while he’s here to witness it.

            “Aren’t you going to give your mother a kiss?” she asks, her voice sharp. Richie finally moves into action. He rests his hands on the back of the couch before leaning in and pressing an overly firm kiss to her cheek. She leans into it.

            “Hey, mom,” he greets quietly, his smile tight.

            “Long day?” she asks, pointedly keeping her eyes on the knitting project in her lap.

            “Yeah, we’re pretty tired,” Richie agrees, moving back and inching towards the stairs. “Can Eddie stay over?” It surprises Eddie that Richie even asks but he’s sure Richie is just hoping to soften the blow of whatever fight they’re going to have tomorrow when Eddie goes home.

            “Oh! Of course,” she says, she looks up at Eddie again, giving his hand a squeeze, “You’re always welcome. You’re such a good boy.” She reaches over and pinches his cheek lightly. Richie snorts and Eddie shoots him a glare, hoping the unspoken ‘fuck you’ is clear on his face.

            “Well, Eds has to call Mrs. K,” Richie informs her, clearly looking for an out. Eddie pushes down the instinctual urge to get defensive when he sees the distaste on Maggie’s face at the mention of his mother. “So we’re gonna head upstairs.”

            “Alright, just don’t go to bed too late,” she warns, shooting them both a stern look.

            “Could say the same thing to you, young lady,” Richie shoots back in his deep ‘adult’ voice, tapping his wrist where a watch would be if he wore one while he walks backwards towards the stairs, “Tsk, tsk.”

            “Don’t push it, Richard,” she threatens while Eddie sighs and follows his friend.

            “Goodnight, Mrs. Tozier,” Eddie calls.

            “Goodnight, mom,” Richie says, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts.

            “Goodnight boys,” she replies without looking away from her work, “I love you.”

            “Love you too mom,” Richie answers over his shoulder and grabs Eddie by the shoulders to physically corral him towards the stairs. Eddie lets Richie push at his shoulders until about half way up the steps Eddie suddenly rag-dolls and becomes dead weight in Richie’s arms. Richie easily holds him up and makes a noise of surprise in the back of his throat.

            Eddie just laughs and Richie, in an exaggerated horrified tone, asks, “Who are you?”

            Eddie is about to reach for the corded phone the Toziers have on a small table in the hallway, because he really does need to call his ma, but Richie is using his much stronger grip to firmly lead him towards the bedroom door that’s littered with stupid raunchy signs, stickers, and posters. He notices a sign that had had two stick figure people fucking is now gone and he’s certain Maggie probably took it upon herself to toss it in the trash. Eddie doesn’t blame her.

            “No, no, no, my friend,” Richie says, kicking his door open wide with his foot and then pushes Eddie inside. “You’re not stalling anymore.” Eddie huffs in annoyance while Richie closes and locks the door behind him. “Show it to me,” Richie orders, his face serious. Eddie feels heat rush to his face.

            “No! Fuck you!” Eddie denies immediately.

            “Come on, Eds! I paid for the damn thing,” Richie says back.

            “I’ll just pay you back then,” Eddie snaps, glaring, and carefully crossing his arms so he doesn't brush the wound. Richie closes his mouth with a click of teeth, looking annoyed, but sighs and lets his shoulders sag in defeat.

            “Fine, fine,” Richie concedes, carding his fingers through his dark hair with a huff.

            Eddie feels guilt settle low in his gut. “What about you? Show me yours,” he says, his voice much more gentle but unwilling to apologize. Richie shoots him a flat look and Eddie rolls his eyes. “I know you want to.”

            Richie points a harsh finger at Eddie’s face. “You are _lucky_ … I really really do,” Richie responds before whipping his shirt off in a blur of motion. Eddie’s eyes land on an expanse of skin before flicking away hastily, his heart tripping in his chest and a strange sense of shame heating his face. He's seen Richie half naked hundreds of times, he doesn't understand where the reaction came from. He forces himself to look at Richie’s face before he’s noticed and ends up on the receiving end of Richie’s smug ridicule. Richie sits on his bed and props his left foot on the edge of his bed frame. Eddie immediately moves in closer to watch as Richie begins peeling back the large bandage to reveal the tattoo that now takes up a good portion of his calf.

            It’s Silver. Eddie doesn’t doubt this initial thought for a second. The image is cartoony in nature. It’s an adult bike with exaggeratedly large wheels that have baseball cards in the spokes, a horn attached to the left front of it, and streamers coming from the wide set of its handles. Silver is propped up on its kick stand and from the horn is a stylistically messy speech bubble that says “HIGH-YO SILVER, AWAAAYYYY” with the repeating As and Ys getting progressively smaller before disappearing.

            Eddie’s eyes carefully take in every detail and he can already feel his throat tighten. “Show me the next one,” Eddie croaks out. Richie looks at him in surprise but smiles and haphazardly puts the bandage back in place. He lowers his left foot and brings up his right, reaching to peel back the bandage but Eddie pushes his hands out of the way and pulls it back himself, winching in sympathy when he sees Richie's leg hairs being pulled. Richie doesn't flinch, just gives Eddie a fond smile.

            It’s in the same cartoony style and Eddie can already tell this is going to be a trend. It’s a lit blow torch with the fire creating the image of an angry smiling face with a large B etched into the canister's body. Eddie looks at Richie in shock. It brings up memories from the time they don’t talk about, he can still see Ben’s pale determined face as he had clutched Mr. Denborough’s blow torch steady, melting the silver that would eventually become the slugs that would save their lives. Richie looks nervously away, scrubbing a hand through the hair at the back of his head.

            “I know, I know, I tried to think of something different, but I… I couldn’t,” he admits, “It was important.” Eddie doesn’t reply. He carefully covers it up and moves to his right shoulder next, sitting down on the bed next to him as he goes. He peels back the small bandage and a grin splits his face at the sight of the familiar bird etched into Richie’s skin. It still has that simplified quality and its eyes are large and animated but it’s without a doubt familiar. Even without coloring, Eddie knows It’s the striking red robin that stands proudly on the cover of Stan’s precious bird book. The one he has in his pocket at all times even as his interest in the hobby has wavered. Its head is looking off to the side, distracted by some noise in the distance. He feels like a kid opening an advent calendar in search of a new treat and his pulse is picking up with each new find. He covers it up and moves to the next shoulder.

            He peels it back to reveal the face of a Golden retriever with exaggeratedly large eyes, a happy expression, and a potato chip bag hanging from its mouth. Instead of a normal brand name, the bag says ‘Mr. Chips’. Eddie stares at it for a long moment before looking at Richie’s face with bone deep fondness. He wants to lean in and press his lips to Richie’s warm cheek but instead he covers the tattoo up and move to his right wrist next.

            He pulls it back and finds a simple lit match with an unnaturally large flame that has the same demonic smiling face as the one coming from the blow torch. He knows exactly who it’s supposed to be and what moment Richie had been thinking of when he’d picked it. It was a hard moment to forget. Beverly had been frighteningly angry, furious and crying, while they stood around their clubhouse – their Smoke-Hole. He knows what Richie intended when he chose _this_ , but the longer he stares at, the more he can smell phantom smoke. The fear he’d felt when Mike and Richie’s loud coughing had cut short while they’d been purposely suffocating on smoke is surging up inside him, so he quickly covers it up. Richie is looking at him like he knows what’s going through his mind and Eddie can’t handle it.

            Richie silently offers up the inner wrist of his other arm, resting his arm across his own lap. Richie looks more nervous than Eddie has ever seen him and now Eddie’s heart is pounding because he suddenly realizes this is _Eddie’s_ tattoo. Eddie fingers the edge of the bandage hesitantly.

            “For fuck’s sakes, Eds, just put me out of my misery,” Richie huffs, causing Eddie to jolt in surprise. Richie blows a long stray strip of hair out of his face and turns his head away from Eddie.

            Eddie finally peels the bandage back and immediately feels his breath hitch. It’s… it’s so… _stupid_. It’s an aspirator, similar to the one he had as a kid, similar to the one he still has stuffed in the back of his side table at home. It has a sticker on the front of the plastic, just above the mouth piece, of a skull and crossbones normally associated with poison. It's cartoony and ridiculous. The aspirator is sitting in a pool of obnoxiously green acid, the only instance of color Eddie has seen so far, that has clearly eaten through the mouth piece. A drop of acid is frozen on its path down the front of the device, causing the skeleton’s face to look runny and sag on one side.

            It's so fucking ridiculous, the most ridiculous looking of all of them, but Eddie wants to run his thumb over it and he can feel tears springing to his eyes. He knows the moment Richie sees the wetness in his eyes.

            “Noooo, nononono,” Richie says quick and panicky, shifting so his body is turned more towards Eddie. He cups Eddie’s face desperately. Richie’s bandage is clinging valiantly to his wrist and it hangs by Eddie’s cheek while his face becomes damp with tears. “Oh my God, please don’t cry. You’re the one who doesn’t cry, I cannot be the one that makes you cry, please don’t fucking cry.”

            “I’m not crying, you asshole!” Eddie chokes out, wiping at his face in a failed attempt to hide his emotions.

            “I _am_ an asshole,” Richie agrees immediately, “Come on, I’ll get it fucking lasered off, just _please_ stop crying.”

            “Don’t you _dare_ , Trashmouth!” Richie’s eyes look strikingly similar to the cartoon Retriever on his shoulder. “I love it,” Eddie admits, wiping at his face again with the back of his arm, “I love it.”

            “You do?” Richie asks, his voice horribly small, his hands going loose on Eddie’s face.

            “Yeah,” Eddie sniffles, “I do.” A grin slowly spreads across Richie’s face that makes Eddie feel gutted. Richie lets go of Eddie’s face and tilts his own head down, grinning at his lap. He reaches up and rubs at his own right eye, pushing his glasses up his forehead with a sniffle.

            “Good… Good,” Richie mumbles, “That’s good.” Eddie stares at Richie and realizes with startling clarity how nervous Richie had actually been, how important it was to him that Eddie liked the images permanently etched into his skin, the images he’d clearly chosen carefully to represent each of their friends. He loves every single one of them, even the ones that bring up the ghost of horrible memories that his mind has tried to keep firmly locked away. Eddie takes two quick deep breaths.

            He grabs the hem of his own sweater before he can think about it too much and pulls it off. Richie’s head whips up and his mouth falls open. Eddie tries to push down the fear that’s threatening to squeeze his lungs and closes his eyes, he figures being blind is better than seeing Richie’s expression. Eddie reaches up and misses the bandage by an inch but he slides his finger over until he feels plastic and gently peels it back, causing a loud tearing noise to fill the silence.

            He hears a sharp intake of breath and then… nothing else. For a moment, Eddie actually contemplates the possibility that Richie has left. He hesitantly peeks his eyes open, then flings them open wide.

            Richie’s impossibly large eyes are focused on the angry red ink lining Eddie’s sternum and he looks… _devastated_. His brows are drawn together and he looks like he’s in great pain. His hand is hanging in the air between them as if he’d been reaching for Eddie but had become frozen half way there. When Richie’s glassy eyes lock with Eddie’s surprised ones, the useless hand shoots up to cover Richie’s own mouth, and a sob erupts from between his fingers.

            Eddie feels his own throat closing up in response and he’s beginning to understand Richie’s panic from earlier.

            “What the _fuck_ , Eddie,” Richie chokes out, fat tears sliding down his cheeks, another sob bubbling up.

            “I just…,” Eddie mumbles, trying to explain himself while he nervously chews his bottom lip, “She was convincing and then I… I couldn't shake the idea, I don’t know.” He shrugs uselessly. Richie hesitantly reaches up and carefully avoids touching the tattoo or the angry red surrounding it, instead placing his thumb just to the left of the first letter, a capital ‘A’ in an elegant typography. Eddie swallows thickly and flushes. Only Richie knows about the promise Eddie had made to himself. The only one who would understand what it means that he chose the tattoo he chose.

            He’d told Richie when he’d been sitting in this very bedroom the day after Bill had announced his impending move. It was the day they’d started their awful planning. He thinks Richie is the only one who _could_ understand.

            Richie’s voice broke through his thoughts. “ _Shit_ , this must have hurt so fucking much,” Richie says, looking at Eddie with deep concern in his red rimmed eyes. Eddie shrugs and shows where he’d bit a hole into the wrist of his sweater’s sleeve. “They’re not supposed to do shit like this on first timers!” Richie cries, suddenly enraged.

            “She tried to talk me out of it,” Eddie reassures him quickly, grabbing Richie’s elbow and tugs it from where his arm had flown off to the side in his anger. “I’m fine, it sucked balls but it only took like twenty minutes.” Richie still looks dubious, letting Eddie pull his hand down between them. “Chee’, I’m fine,” Richie instantly softens around the edges at the rarely used nickname.

            It was like the polar opposite of ‘Beep Beep’. Something they’d all discovered when Ben, half-awake and more than a little inebriated, had made grabby hands at Richie with a happy smile on his face and the slurred name on his lips. Richie, not nearly as inebriated but filled with hyper energy, had stilled his ridiculous dancing with Beverly and had looked at Ben with wide emotion filled eyes. He had gone without complaint while his friend had pulled him down and situated them on Bill’s couch with Ben putting nearly all of his dead weight on Richie’s thin lanky body. Richie had wrapped his arms around Ben and rubbed the bulky man's back. They didn't move until well into the next morning.

            “Okay, okay,” Richie agrees, the tension lessening. He reaches up and carefully covers the tattoo back up for Eddie. “We should get these cleaned up.” He stands while Eddie snatches up his sweater and puts it back on the moment the tattoo is thoroughly protected. Richie is heading for his door, expecting Eddie to follow.

            “Did you like it?” Eddie asks just as Richie is reaching for the door handle. Richie stills and looks at Eddie very seriously. It makes Eddie nervous.

            “ ** _Duh_** ,” Richie answers and rolls his eyes, an exaggerated imitation of the exasperation Eddie was prone to. He grins widely and pulls the door open when Eddie flicks him off. Eddie ignores the pleasant warmth blooming under his ribs, just below his raw skin, while he walks passed Richie into the hallway. He shoves his middle finger against Richie’s nose as he passes. Richie pokes his tongue out and the tip of it touches the back of Eddie’s hand.

            Richie laughs loudly when Eddie whips the appendage away and makes a disgusted noise as he rubs his hand on the hallway’s flowery wallpaper.

            An hour later finds them in their pajamas, lounging on Richie’s bed while Richie talks excitedly about what other ideas he had for future tattoos. Both are laying side by side. Eddie taps his foot against the bedroom wall while his head is turned towards Richie. Eddie’s eyes keep flicking from Richie’s face to where Eddie has pushed up Richie’s long sleeve in order to stare at the irritated aspirator drawing that’s glistening with antibacterial cream.

            Richie has a long-sleeved shirt on along with a pair of long sweatpants that effectively cover his tattoos, a complete deviation from his usual boxers-only ensemble. Eddie had been firm on the decision, worried about infection, while Richie had bitched and moaned about the heat all the while. Now, Eddie regrets the decision a little bit. He misses the expanse of skin; the familiar freckles, moles, and old scars that resulted from picking at himself. He doesn't realize he’s stopped listening until there’s suddenly silence.

            When he looks up, Richie is staring down at him with this soft expression that makes Eddie want to turn away but it pins him in place.

            “Did I lose ya?” Richie asks quietly with a chuckle. Eddie reaches over and wraps both of his hands around Richie’s larger one, tugging it until their hands are resting on Eddie’s stomach, carefully avoiding the irritated flesh of his wrist. Richie instantly curls his fingers over the back of Eddie’s hand.

            “No,” Eddie says, “Sorry… just got lost in thought.”

            Richie takes a deep breath and sighs, “I really owe you one, Spaghetti-Man.” Eddie shrugs.

            “I used a pretty good amount of your money today,” Eddie reasons, “I figure I probably owe you more than you owe me.”

            Richie slides his hand to just below Eddie’s pierced ear and runs the pad of his thumb along the soft skin of his neck, just under his lobe. He gives Eddie a flirty grin, “I don’t know, seems more like a gift for me than for you,” he replies with a wink. Eddie stares at Richie without making a witty comeback or giving him the usual stink eye. Instead he’s quiet and his eyes are squinted slightly in deep thought as they scan over Richie’s face carefully.

            Richie’s expression doesn't change but Eddie thinks he feels Richie’s palm beginning to sweat. Eddie turns slightly onto his side, releasing Richie’s hand while he pulls himself up onto his elbow so that he’s hovering just over Richie while his free hand reaches up to cup Richie's cheek. He runs his thumb over the prickly hairs there. Eddie has always been jealous of Richie's ability to start sprouting facial hair only hours after shaving. Eddie doesn't think he’d personally look very good with facial hair but he finds himself feeling envious all the same.

            When he looks down at his friend, Richie’s expression has shifted to one of genuine surprise. Richie’s eyes are overwhelmingly vulnerable when Eddie leans in, carefully giving Richie the chance to stop him before he plants a soft kiss to Richie’s lips. It's nothing but a soft press of lips but it makes Eddie’s pulse race. Eddie pulls away and finds Richie’s eyes impossibly wide, cheeks red, and he looks like he might cry again.

            Richie reaches up and cradles Eddie’s face in his hands gently, like he’s something precious. He guides Eddie down into a firm close mouthed kiss, his nose and the frames of his glasses digging into Eddie’s cheek. Eddie presses into it, kissing back just as fiercely. When they pull away again, Richie’s eyes are _sparkling_. He runs his thumb over Eddie’s bottom lip, his eyes fixate on the way the skin of Eddie’s lip drags under the weight of his finger.

            Eddie feels air rapidly escape his lungs and the space between them feels suddenly charged. Eddie gets the ridiculous urge to slip his tongue out and lick the pad of Richie’s thumb, reminiscent of what Richie had done to him earlier but with very different intentions. Richie gives him a lusty grin, his eyes half lidded behind coke bottle lenses.

            “You can lick ‘em if you want,” he mumbles, closely watching the way Eddie’s tongue is inching towards his finger without Eddie’s knowledge, “I know how much you like ‘em.” For a moment, Eddie doesn't catch the implications of that statement, instead focusing on working up the courage to suck Richie’s thumb into his mouth. But then it clicks and his eyes flick up to Richie’s eyes and his face pinches. Richie frowns and meets Eddie’s eyes with confusion.

Then his eyes grow comically wide with panic, obviously guilty, while he pulls his hands from Eddie’s face like he’s afraid he might get bitten. Smart move. Eddie’s mouth drops open and he gasps with outrage.

            “That bitch told you!” Eddie accuses while he shoots up into a seated position. He swings his arm back and smacks Richie in the gut roughly with the back of his hand, a glare firmly set on his face. Richie chokes and covers his stomach, winching. “ _How much_?” Eddie asks through gritted teeth. Richie doesn't meet his eyes and instead curls into a tighter ball to cover as much of himself as he can in case Eddie decides to strike again. Eddie groans loudly and flops over onto his back, covering his hot face with his hands. “Oh my Goddddd.” Eddie could feel complete and total embarrassment uncomfortably heating him from his toes all the way to his damn scalp.

            Richie uncurls himself and crawls on top of Eddie’s body, bracketing Eddie’s head with his arms. “Hey,” he says gently, gripping one of Eddie’s wrists and tugging but to no avail. “Come on, Eds, it’s not a big deal.”

            Eddie’s hands whip away from his face abruptly, revealing an angry blushing face.

            “I will fucking punch you again,” Eddie growls.

            “Keep talking dirty,” Richie jokes. Eddie balls his fist threateningly and Richie yelps, covering his gut with his arms and sitting on Eddie’s lap. Eddie sighs and slumps limply back against the bed with his eyes closed.

            “Fuck,” he mumbles.

            “Hey, don’t be upset with her,” Richie implores, worrying about how he might have fucked something up between his friends, “I love her, but Bev has always been shit with keeping secrets from the rest of the group.” Eddie knows Richie is trying to cool Eddie’s anger, but instead he feels his blood run cold. Richie’s smirk falls when Eddie looks at him, pale faced and wide eyed with terror.

            “ _How much did she tell you?_ ” Eddie asks again more forcefully.

            “Hey, whoa,” Richie attempts to sooth, holding his hands up, “Eddie, it’s okay.”

            Eddie sits up abruptly, causing Richie to jerk back in order to avoid a collision between his chin and Eddie’s forehead. “It’s not okay!” Eddie yells back. Richie glances at his closed door quickly, likely checking to see if his parents have been woken up, and in that split second of distraction, Eddie feels his lungs abruptly squeeze tight, the ability to breathe a forgotten skill. When Richie looks back at Eddie, instead of the anger or fear, he finds him struggling to take an inhale. Richie looks around in a panic. He immediately crawls off Eddie’s lap and scrambles for his side table, pulling a brown paper bag from a pack of 20 he has stored there. He shakes it open before pressing it into Eddie’s reaching hands.

            Eddie pulls his knees up enough so that when he folds himself forward he can put his head between them and holds the bag to his mouth. He works his breathing down to a less frenzied state while Richie carefully keeps himself from touching Eddie while giving him quiet encouragement. Eddie’s panic ebbs and leaves behind exhaustion and a mild headache.

            “Eddie-baby” Richie says quietly, his tone pleading while he held his hands firmly clenched between his knees to keep them from reaching for Eddie without his permission. “I have no idea what the _fuck_ is going on.” Eddie scrubs a hand down his face. He feels like an over-dramatic idiot. “She just told me the sexy stuff, nothing else, I promise, but you _gotta_ tell me what’s wrong.”

            “It’s… It’s something stupid… that was just… I’m just tired Richie,” Eddie explains lamely. Richie gives Eddie one last desperate look before dropping his head down in defeat with a frustrated sigh. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately with Eddie. Eddie frowns watching him, guilt and exhaustion collide and destroy the wall that’s been keeping his emotions at bay. “Bev has never seen me without my shirt on,” Eddie blurts out “Well, none of you guys have, for years now.”

            Richie lifts his head to look at him and frowns, but seems unsurprised.

            “We’ve been… messing around a lot these last couple weeks, she’s one of the people I love and trust the most, and I wouldn't take my shirt off in front of her,” Eddie says, realizing just how silly it is when he says it out loud. Eddie runs his fingers through his hair with one hand and tugs down at the bottom hem of his borrowed over sized  sleep-shirt.

            “I would trust her with my life but if she so much as pushed my shirt up, I suddenly couldn't breathe.” Now Eddie’s voice comes out angry, filled to the brim with self-loathing. “I’d just hear my mother’s fucking voice telling me how unattractive I am, how no one will look twice at me if I keep eating so much, calling me the fucking _Fat Friend,”_ Eddie is practically seething, his teeth grinding together, “And suddenly I know I’d never be able to handle it if Bev, o-or _any_ of you guys, looked at me and I saw….” His voice trails off and when his eyes focus back on Richie, he finds his friend looking a little sick, a little sad, a little _furious_.

            The cold fury that overtakes Richie’s face completely floors Eddie and for a second, he’s actually afraid it’s directed at him. Eddie is always shocked by Richie’s anger. He expects the energy fueled temper tantrums of Richie’s youth, sometimes he’s right to expect them, but when he finds cold quiet rage looking back at him it trips him up every time.

            “Richie?” Eddie asks quietly.

            “I’m going to fucking _end_ her,” Richie says, his lips barely moving over the words. Eddie isn't sure what that entails, but it makes Eddie’s blood freeze and his heart stop. It would've been an empty threat from anyone else, but Richie isn't anyone else. Behind the familiar lenses, he can see cold calculation in Richie’s eyes.

            Eddie jerks his foot out and roughly kicks Richie in the side. “Don’t you _touch_ my fuckin’ Ma,” Eddie says behind clenched teeth, the very image of a small guard dog. Richie’s glazed eyes clear when the sharp pain pulls him back from whatever dark place his brain sometimes goes. Eddie can see the moment Richie realizes what he’d been doing, what he was thinking of doing, and his anger recedes. A litany of emotions flash over his face, guilt, some fear, nausea, before he lands on heartbreak.

            “Eds, Eddie,” Richie says desperately, racking his fingers through his hair. “She… You…,” Richie sighs and thumps his fist against the bed in frustration. “When has your mother ever been right about _anything?_ ” he asks. Eddie looks like he wants to get defensive again but Richie cups his face between firm hands. “I _know_ okay I know she’s your mom and you love her but she doesn't know jack _shit_ ,” Richie says quickly in one breath. “ ** _I_ ** have been your friend for _years_ , we have been through crazy ass shit together, and have I _ever_ lied to you?”

            Eddie stares at Richie, a little overwhelmed, and shakes his head. Richie has lied to other people no problem, he’s told small lies for the sake of a joke or a stupid prank, and there are things he’ll hold close to his chest, but he’s never lied to Eddie.

            “And _she_ has lied to you for most of your damn life,” Richie continues harshly, making Eddie flinch, “So _listen_ to me, you’re _beautiful_ Eds. You’re fucking ridiculous and even if Stan is too much of a fucking old man to admit it, we all fucking love you.” Richie leans in and presses a short bruising kiss to Eddie’s lips. Eddie grips Richie’s forearms tightly, digging his nails into the skin there while his thoughts spiral. Richie looks ready to beg. He changes tactics. “Do you care that my teeth are fucked? Or that I have weird stretch marks? That _Bev and Ben_ have weird stretch marks? Or that Bill has a receding hairline or Mike has the driest fucking feet I’ve ever seen or Stan has a big ass hairy mole on his shoulder?” Eddie shakes his head over and over, his face still cradled by Richie’s hands, and his eyes huge. “It’s the same for us, man,” his voice is barely above a whisper. Eddie feels broken open and Richie doesn't look much better. Richie’s hands become soft, stroking his thumbs over Eddie’s cheekbones. “It’s the same.”

            “Shit,” Eddie chokes out, his throat tight. Even now, a quiet voice is telling him its only pity that’s making Richie say these things, it’s just sweet lies to make him feel better about himself, but Richie is looking at him with such earnest eyes, the ones that only seem to come out when shit has really hit the fan. He hates himself a little bit for not being able to believe him blindly. He reaches up and cups his palm over the back of one of Richie’s hands. His hand is so much smaller in comparison that his fingertips barely brush the second joint of Richie’s fingers. He doesn't know why but it makes the corner of his eyes sting.

            Richie takes a deep breath before he leans in and presses a much softer kiss to Eddie’s lips. “Sorry,” he mumbles then frowns and shakes his head, “Well… no, actually no I’m not, but I probably could've handled that more calmly.” Eddie gives an ugly snort.

            “Understatement,” Eddie replies. Richie smiles softly, some of the tension draining from his muscles. Eddie kisses him again. Richie grins.

            “So, can I just… do this now?” Richie asks taking his hands off Eddie’s face and staring at Eddie’s bottom lip longingly before flicking his eyes back up. Eddie puts his thumb and index finger to his chin, rubs it, and looks up at the ceiling, feigning deep thought.

            “Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, maybe.” Richie laughs and jabs a finger into Eddie's side. Eddie yelps and slaps his hand away. Richie stands and scoops Eddie up into his arms and lifts him about a foot above the bed before dropping him back on it with a bounce. Eddie is kicking at Richie in retaliation but he’s laughing as he does so. Richie grabs Eddie’s ankle when it nearly connects with his face. Eddie fruitlessly tries to yank his leg free but Richie has a tight hold. Eddie flicks him off defiantly.

            Richie moves between Eddie’s legs while he crawls back on top of the bed and over Eddie’s body. As he goes, Richie’s hand slides from Eddie’s ankle and up his calf, making goosebumps rise on Eddie’s skin. He takes a moment to ghost his fingers over Eddie’s bony knees before hooking his hand under the back of it and guiding Eddie’s leg up around his hip. Eddie watches him closely, taking in the easy control of his movements. Eddie has seen Richie literally trip on air but right now if someone told him Richie was actually a world famous gymnast, Eddie could believe it.

            Richie leans in, just within reach. Eddie thinks he’s going to get another kiss but instead Richie just gives him a smug look that infuriates him to no end. He grabs Richie by the back of the head and roughly pulls him into the kiss he’d been anticipating. Richie snickers against Eddie’s lips which only serves to exasperate Eddie more. Richie pulls back and grins down at Eddie.

            “Do you like mi ke-ses, _Senior_?” Richie asks in his horrible Mexican accent. Eddie’s lips become a thin line. He plants both hands on Richie’s chest and gives a firm push until the asshole flops over onto the spot next to him. Richie is gripping his stomach and laughing while Eddie is contemplating every choice he’s ever made. Richie has tears in his eyes and he’s still trying to control his giggles when he wraps himself around Eddie like an octopus.

            Eddie shoots him a glare, his body unresponsive to Richie’s clinging. Richie rests his chin on Eddie’s shoulder, his wild hair is spilled out on their shared pillow and a smile is still plastered on his face. “Can I tell the other Losers?” Richie suddenly asks, his eyes wide with excitement.

            Eddie shrugs, “Why do you wanna tell them so badly?” he asks in return, confused.

            Richie scoffs. “To shove it in their damn faces,” Richie explains like it's obvious. Eddie snorts dubiously. Richie rolls his eyes at Eddie’s doubt. “I will bet cold hard cash that every single one of those fuckers will plant one on you if you just ask.”

            “And **_I’ll_** bet you’ll lose every penny you make in your life if you ever become a gambler,” Eddie snickers.

            “I’m serious, Eds” Richie says, Eddie’s hand instinctively swings out and smacks Richie’s arm for the nickname. Richie doesn't even flinch. “If they don’t, you don’t have to pay me back for that tat or the piercing and I’ll even throw in another $40 bucks, worst thing that could happen is they say no and you tell ‘em I made you do it.” Eddie frowns and chews his lip. Richie could make a lucrative career as a slick car salesman.

            “You can’t make me do shit,” Eddie deflects lamely.

            “We both know that’s bullshit,” Richie shoots back. Eddie gives his arm another smack but doesn't deny it. “We both know you want those Loser smooches,” Richie says, waggling his brows suggestively. Eddie bites on the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

            “Oh, fuck off."

            “So is that a bet?” Richie asks, pulling his right hand from around Eddie’s waist before spitting into his palm and holding it out to Eddie to shake. Eddie grimaces and tries to squirm away.

            “Oh, come on, a little spit isn't gonna kill you,” Richie says then smirks, “I expect you’ll be getting well acquainted with it over the next couple days.” Eddie gives Richie’s hand another disgusted look. “You really gonna let me beat you without a fight?”

            Eddie furrows his brows and feels his competitive spirit kick in immediately in response. Eddie pulls his own right hand from where it’s trapped between his side and Richie’s torso and holds it up to his face. He loudly gathers spit at the back of his throat and spits aggressively onto his hand. He turns sharp eyes on Richie and slaps their wet hands together with a loud **SMACK**. Richie tries to keep a straight face but Eddie catches the way Richie’s lips twitch down when their hands make contact. Eddie keeps the glare on his face despite the disgusting sliminess between their palms. They shake.

            “Fine, I’ll do it.”

            Richie grins triumphantly before grimacing when they release each other. Eddie grabs for the pack of baby wipes Richie keeps in his side table alongside the paper bags and the other random shit he has in there. He wipes both their hands quickly and tosses it over the side of the bed and onto the floor. He grabs Richie’s glasses off his face and places them on Richie’s side table. Eddie carefully moves onto his side, he pushes back into the curve of Richie’s body, and curls his legs up. Richie adjusts his arms around Eddie’s waist and sandwiches one of Eddie’s feet between his thighs while Eddie tucks his other foot between Richie’s leg and the mattress. Richie presses his grin to the back of Eddie’s neck.

            Eddie sighs and closes his eyes, letting the exhaustion he’s been holding off melt him into the mattress. Quiet and stillness settles over them and Eddie’s mind begins to drift.

            “I say, I say, I say, this is goin’ be a mighty fine week.”

            “ _Go the fuck to sleep, Richie_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It got real dramatic and kind of cliché there at the end but I hope you like it anyways. *Shrug*
> 
> Another fun fact: I wrote more than 50,000 words of a Will/Mike/Eleven fic (literally just 50,000 words of cute fluff and angst tbqh) and yet I've got 8 chapters up of something I started this month. 
> 
> Leave me some thoughts friendos.
> 
> Edit: Editing this right now and honestly, no wonder there's so few comments this chapter, I literally made a they're/their mistake and honestly RIP me. Also I'm changing the past tense speech to present tense. Was gonna just commit to the weirdness but it's bugging the shit out of me.


	9. Sewing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter with minimal shipping but I really wanted to show more parent stuff lmao
> 
> QUESTION: So, I have this chapter I've been writing that is literally just an excuse for smut and it's within this universe but it's based further in the future of the fic. The question is, should I wait until I reach a point in the story where that chapter could be reasonably slipped in or should I just post it as a one shot? (I think I just talked myself into posting it separately but I'll ask anyways).
> 
> Just a heads up, I'm also thinking of doing another separate thing based in this universe that's Eddie-centric and PWP, each chapter is Eddie/one of the Losers. Really just wanna do those rare ships and have an excuse to do that one on one interaction TBQH (So like... if ya got a kink or idea you wanna see, fuckin put a comment and maybe I'll use it.)

            Jessica Hanlon watches Beverly Marsh closely over the pants she’s quietly prepping to be hemmed. They’re both set up at the Hanlon’s long dining room table, the one they usually only used for guests and sewing work. They each have their own sewing machine set up nearby. Miss Marsh began to help Jessica with her sewing commissions only a few months into the lessons Jessica had offered to give. She’d be annoyed with the ease at which the then 15 year old had easily surpassed her own skill, but the truth was that that poor girl deserved to have something good in her life and her help made the work easier. It’s become even easier ever since her sweet boy and his crazy friends pitched in to buy Miss Marsh the newest sewing machine model. It was quicker than her clunky old hand crank Singer and Miss Marsh learned every single aspect of her new tool within days. She’d been vibrating out of her skin with excitement the day Michael had brought her over in his late father’s truck, showing it off to Jessica proudly.

            She knew how much her son and his friends had worked to get the money together for such an expensive gift. She’d thought it foolish and told her son so when he’d nearly fallen asleep in his mashed potatoes after a day of school, farm work, and odd jobs worked around town. But when her student’s eyes were shinning up at her, in search of parental approval the child had probably never experienced, she’d understood. She’d cupped her son’s happy flushed face while Beverly set up the machine in their usual spot, looked at him with deep fondness and pride and pressed a firm kiss to his sharp cheek bone. She knows that Miss Marsh still treats the gift like it’s something more precious than gold, still looking brand new more than 2 years later.

            So Jessica knows something is wrong when she sees her pupil harshly ripping a piece of fabric under the needle, causing the machine to make an ugly grinding noise. Miss Marsh growls in frustration and lifts the foot and pulls out the scrap fabric. The lines are jagged and puckering in different spot.

            “Shit,” Miss Marsh mumbles and begins opening up the panel that reveals the innards of the machine, attempting to adjust the tension to better fit the material.

            “Not in my house,” Jessica says sharply, a knee jerk reaction. Miss Marsh looks sheepish and apologetic, finally acknowledging Jessica’s presence.

            “Sorry, Mrs. Hanlon,” she amends.

            “We only make money if we don’t ruin the clothes, you know,” she points out instead of acknowledging the apology.

            Beverly goes pink with shame and embarrassment. She pulls her fingers from the machine, now spotted with black oily smudges from the grease inside. She wipes her fingers on a rag she keeps stored with her sewing box.

            “I know… I’m sorry,” she apologizes again, “I just… Richie called me before I came over and he was mad at me, I guess I’m still upset about it.”

            Jessica sighs and rolls her eyes, “That boy has no sense,” she mumbles, expertly masking the fondness she had for the foul-mouthed child. Clear as day, she can still remember the impossibly wide eyed look he’d given her their first meeting, when her hand had shot out to land a firm smack to the back of his head the moment ‘Massah’ had slipped past his lips in that disrespectful imitation. She doesn’t think she’ll _ever_ forget the day a strange 12 year old white boy had dropped to his knee in front of her, still holding his stinging scalp, and begged for her hand in marriage while her husband watched on with barely concealed amusement. “What’s ‘e done now?”

            “There was something… important that I didn’t tell him about,” Beverly explains, carefully choosing her words to avoid giving anything away, “And he found out about it and knows that I knew about it.”

            “And that boy doesn’t handle not getting his way very well,” Jessica finishes for her. Miss Marsh rolls her eyes and nods with a shrug. “All women carry secrets in their hearts, it’s how we’ve been able to survive as long we have and men don’t fancy that too much, but I wouldn’t worry. That boy has been taught the ultimate truth of the universe.” Jessica puts in her last pin while Beverly makes a noise of confusion. “If you don’t keep the women in your life happy, you ain’t gonna keep a happy life,” Jessica says sagely, then much more smugly adds, “And I know he knows that, since I’m the one that taught him.”

            Miss Marsh laughs loudly, slapping her hand on the table and bending over in her seat. She looks at Jessica fondly. By the time Jessica has the pant leg lined up under her needle, Miss Marsh is far calmer and has begun to work again. Her fingers work much more expertly and soon enough they’re finishing up their first orders. There’s a comfortable silence that’s settled over the room that’s broken by Michael’s heavy footfalls coming down the stairs.

            “I don’t know why I hear an elephant on my nice stairs,” she calls, her voice barely above her regular speaking volume, but the steps immediately quiet down. Beverly stifles her snickering. Michael comes around the corner of the opening of the dining room, giving his mother a sufficiently chastised look.

            “Sorry, mama,” he says. Jessica glances at Miss Marsh and takes in the way her eyes are trained on her son and how they light up. She feels familiar worry bubble in her stomach.

            “How was your nap?” Beverly asks, turning in her seat so she can more fully face him. His tired eyes soften when they turn on her and there’s already a smile on his face.

            “Pretty good, still wiped though,” he admits, “But, chores, y’know.” He gestures at his stained shirt, old worn jeans, and his dirty boots. His usual farm work outfit. Jessica eyes them both. They had seen each other briefly when Beverly first arrived, but the longing way they're looking at each other now makes it seem like they haven't seen each other in days. Jessica never thought she’d see the day where she’d so easily be able to picture her son getting married to a white woman.

            “Well get to it,” Jessica breaks in when the two haven’t said anything more to each other. Michael jumps a little and he looks at his mother, clearly embarrassed. She taps her cheek, “Now kiss your mother,” she demands. Michael immediately complies like the obedient son he is. When he passes Beverly on his way back towards where he came, Beverly sticks her leg out to stop him. He laughs when she tilts her head towards him, presenting her cheek, and tapping it in a perfect replica of Jessica. He cups one of her cheeks and plants a kiss on her cheek with an exaggerated “Mmmmwuah.” She giggles and her cheeks go pink. She kicks his butt with her boot and his laughter follows him out of the house.

            When Miss Marsh finally rights herself in her seat, she’s still pink and is looking embarrassed, but no less thrilled, when she realizes Jessica has been watching them. Beverly seems much happier since she got there and Jessica hates to ruin it, but she finds herself saying, “Michael told me about your plans after school.” Beverly’s smile falls and some of the blush leaves her cheeks.

            “What did he say?” she asks, her voice quiet and afraid.

            “He told me about ya’ll’s _ridiculous_ plan to move to the city,” Jessica says, despite her clear disapproval, Miss Marsh’s shoulders slump with relief and she’s grinning down at the table. Jessica knows why, Michael told her everything, including the fact that he’d been struggling with his decision because of her. She’d felt breathless with terror when he’d sat across from her at the much smaller table in the kitchen with her hand in his and told her. She knows by the elation on the naïve girl’s face that Beverly doesn't understand, couldn't possibly understand.

            “You and your friends have done a lot for my son, but you put a target on my baby boy’s back every time you’re seen together,” she says next, her voice strong and mildly accusatory, “Those big bad New York folk can act like they’re so _different_ than the rest of us, but there are just as many men with pointed hoods there that would gladly see my boy dead.”

            Beverly’s face has grown grim and sympathetic throughout Jessica’s speech but her eyes are determined. Jessica unclenches her fist when she realizes she has a thimble digging into her palm. Beverly stands and pulls out the chair beside Jessica and sits on the edge of it. She takes Jessica’s shaking hand and squeezes it. Jessica sits up straighter, unwilling to drop her pride, and ignores the tears pooling in her eyes.

            “We would do _anything_ for him,” Beverly states without hesitation, her jaw tight and her eyes intense, “We’re not going to let anything happen to him.” Jessica wants to believe those words. She squeezes Beverly’s hand back fiercely and her tears catch on the wrinkles around her eyes.

            “You can’t promise that,” she counters, her breath shuddering out of her. She keeps her head held high even though her tough image has long since been shattered.

            “He is no safer here, we both know that,” Beverly says back. Butch Bower’s hateful eyes flash through Jessica’s eyes and she shudders. Jessica has faced many white men with the devil in their souls and Butch Bowers has been dead coming on 7 years but it's hard to forget the particular brand of cruelty she’d often found there the few times they’d interacted. “We don’t want to leave you here either, we could figure something out.” Jessica is already shaking her head.

            “I’m too old for all that.” Jessica wipes beneath her eyes and sighs. “Mikey doesn't need an old lady holding him back.” Beverly frowns like she wants to argue and squeezes her hand again. “I knew this had to happen sometime… I've been… taking more orders lately, started selling things off around the farm, I could afford a small place on my own... it’s time I stop living with ghosts.”

            Beverly stares up at her with deep admiration and sorrow in her eyes. She reaches over and pulls Jessica into her arms and squeezes Jessica’s frail body as tightly as she can. They take a moment to revel in the comfort they’re offering one another then part and move on. Miss Marsh moves back to her end of the table while Jessica resolutely returns to the order she’d put aside. She hadn't understood when her son had come to her all those years ago saying he’d become friends with a girl that had reminded him of her, they’re probably less alike than they ever were before, but Jessica thinks she understands now.

            Jessica puts her work into her machine, carefully placing the fabric under the needle before putting the presser foot down to hold it in place. She grips the crank and works the hem through the machine, watching for snags that might ruin her work.

            “It’s gonna be a full time job,” Jessica says suddenly without taking her eyes off her work. Beverly glances up curiously. “Making sure that fool boy doesn't say something that’ll get him stabbed.” Miss Marsh’s eyes grow wide before grimacing with a groan of realization, dropping her head back in exasperation.

            “I’ll be sure to hide the knives from Eddie,” Beverly responds, lifting her head with a cheeky smile. Jessica’s shoulders shake with laughter and she shares a companionable grin across the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: I have a Tumblr now! Check it out and hit me up! https://www.tumblr.com/blog/anxiousbich
> 
> Sorry it's short but I hope you dig Mrs. Hanlon because I dooooo and I like my headcanon a lot *weep*
> 
> I think this is the first time I've posted while not stoned so there's that lmao
> 
> I hope this isn't too clunky/boring! I've been switching between this, the next chapter, and that smutty future/separate chapter which is why it took me so long. I hope you enjoyed anyways.
> 
> Edit: I'm rereading the ST fanfiction I wrote for the first time in like a month and the amount of similarities to this is pretty sad because they were totally unintentional lmao
> 
> Please please please comment, I am weak and in need of validation  
> (I'm also a hypocrite :,) I'm so bad at commenting omfg)


	10. Someone Else

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so sorry this took as long as it did. Life and the fact that I've started like 3 other fics at the same time didn't help. I hope ya'll like it anyway.
> 
> I also changed my username and now have a tumblr attached to here!  
> ( https://www.tumblr.com/blog/anxiousbich )
> 
> Warnings: Elements of a mild panic attack, blink and you'll miss it reference to self harm

            After Richie lays out his rules for their little bet to a flustered Eddie, he can’t help feeling a small sense of accomplishment. It’s probably premature, but he gets the sense that Eddie is standing on some sort of precipice and Richie is more than happy to be the boot that kicks him off the edge. They can hear Richie’s parents moving around downstairs and Eddie seems to have reached his threshold for Richie’s shit and flips the comforter over Richie’s head.

            Richie laughs from under his fabric prison while Eddie stands. Eddie gathers his clothes from the night before and Richie pulls the comforter back enough to reveal his face so he can see. Eddie heads for the door to go to the bathroom to change, but Richie reaches out and grabs his wrist, stopping him. Eddie looks at him and frowns in confusion.

            “It’s just me,” Richie tells him, his voice quiet and expression open. Eddie tenses and frowns down at where Richie is gripping his wrist. Richie keeps his hold carefully loose, not wanting to make Eddie feel trapped. Eddie pulls his hand from Richie’s hold and for a moment it looks like he’s going to leave anyway but instead he turns his back to Richie, takes a deep breath, and pulls his shirt over his head.

            Richie wants to look away, give Eddie some reprieve from his heavy gaze, but he can’t help watching the play of muscles and bone beneath smooth tan skin. He eyes the pudge around Eddie’s hips that are really just begging to have Richie’s hands on them and _fuck_ , he gets to _kiss_ that beautiful boy now. His eyes flick to the back of Eddie’s head when his view is abruptly cut off by Eddie’s worn ET sweatshirt. Eddie seems less concerned about peeling off Richie’s borrowed boxers. Richie unabashedly stares at the way Eddie’s tight briefs cling to the swell of his ass. He rests his elbow on his knee and props his head up on his hand, enjoying the view. He doesn’t look away even when Eddie pulls the loose fabric of his shorts over his hips.

            “Did you just want an excuse to stare at my ass?” Eddie asks flatly, looking over his shoulder and catching the dopey expression on Richie’s face. Richie finally flicks his eyes to Eddie’s face and grins.

            “It’s just a pleasant bonus, my sweet Eddie spaghetti.” Eddie huffs but there’s amusement in his eyes.

            “Walk me out, you asshole.” Richie grins and hops to his feet. He pauses at his bedroom door, resulting in Eddie bumping into his back with an annoyed huff. “Stop fucking around, my mom is already gonna murder me,” he grouches. Richie spins around and takes in the familiar frustrated expression on Eddie’s face. Richie knows it’s shitty and probably not very healthy for either of them, but the way he can get under Eddie’s skin always sends his heart racing.

            He cups Eddie’s cheeks and kisses him, closed mouth and drawn out. Eddie’s lashes flutter against Richie’s cheek bone and Eddie grips his elbow, leaning up into it on his tip toes. He’s so fucking _cute_. When Richie pulls away, Eddie looks a bit dazed. Richie had spent the first 10 minutes of consciousness dragging Eddie from sleep with soft brushes of lips, thoroughly acquainting himself with Eddie’s mouth once Eddie was more awake, enjoying every second of it, morning breath and all. Every time he remembers he could do it _again_ was like a shock to the system. Richie leans in for another and Eddie immediately responds, chasing each other’s lips for one more quick peck.

            “If you don’t turn those high beams down, I might just have to hold you captive,” Richie warns Eddie, his voice low, staring into Eddie’s big brown eyes. Eddie goes red to the tips of his ears and hesitates only a second before pushing passed Richie.

            “Suck my dick,” Eddie barks over his shoulder, his shoulders stiff and his ears still red. Richie grins brightly.

            “Whenever you want, baby.” Eddie nearly trips on his own feet and Richie cackles.

            Despite how much he doesn't really want Eddie to go, he hates watching his own mother dote on someone else while passive aggressively giving him the cold shoulder, so he hustles him by the kitchen where he can hear his mom cooking and he’s sure his dad is reading the morning paper. He sneaks a kiss just because, and is insanely pleased by Eddie’s enthusiasm every time. Eddie heads out to return Stan’s car and face his mother’s wrath. Richie listens to Stan’s engine come to life through the front door and takes a deep breath, mentally preparing himself, before turning away and heading for the kitchen.

            “And how are you this fine morn’in my good chaps?” Richie greets in his British accent, stepping into the kitchen. It’s secretly the one he’s the most proud of. His father lowers his newspaper and grins at his son.

            “Quite fine, pip pip cheerio,” his dad replies in his own, bad, imitation of the same accent. Richie snorts and the two openly laugh at the shitty accent. His mom is silent where she’s cooking egg whites, already dressed for work in a navy blue pressed skirt, and a white blouse.

            “G'mornin, dad,” Richie greets, shaking his head. He looks at his mom’s tense shoulders and feels his stomach roll anxiously. “’Morning, mom,” he says much more subdued.

            “Good morning, Richard,” she replies without looking at him, her tone clipped. She distributes the eggs between two plates that already have pieces of whole wheat toast waiting. His dad eyes the plates disdainfully and quietly grumbles about a lack of bacon. She walks over with the plates in hand, her heels clicking on the linoleum, and puts her husband’s plate down in front of him with more force than necessary, shooting him a scathing look for the comment before moving to the opposite side of the table to eat her own breakfast.

            There’s a bowl sitting on the counter with Richie’s favorite cereal set out. He goes to the fridge to grab the milk.

            “Eddie left?” she asks, her fork poised near her painted lips with eggs resting on it. Richie pauses, swallowing thickly. His father eats quickly, glancing between his wife and son nervously, the tension heavy. Richie finally grasps the milk and stands, forcing a smile on his face.

            “Yeah, Spaghetti Man headed home,” Richie confirms.

            “You really shouldn't call him that,” she says, shaking her head before taking a bite, her teeth clinking on the metal. Richie tenses and feels anger roll through him, but he pushes it down and clamps his teeth tightly together. He’s only just started pouring the milk into his bowl of cereal when he hears a chair scrape against the ground.

            “Well, I better get going,” his dad says, standing and leaving his dirty dishes on the table, but snatching up his newspaper. He loops around the table and quickly plants a kiss on his wife’s forehead while she stares blankly at the dishes he’s left behind. He then goes over and ruffles Richie’s hair affectionately, unaware or unconcerned, by the way Richie’s heart is now racing. Richie gives his dad a forced smile.

            “See ya, pops,” Richie says, “Don’t get too much tail today.” His mom makes an affronted noise but his dad laughs loudly.

            “See ya, kid,” he replies, “Love you.” He disappears through the entrance of the kitchen, picks up his keys from the table by the door as he goes, and the door bangs shut behind him. He locks the door, leaving the mother and son in silence. Richie leans against the counter while he munches on his cereal, his eyes fixed on the ground.

            “Where did you go last night?” she asks, her voice loud in the quiet. It’s an innocent enough question and Richie isn't ashamed of his new artwork, but his heart starts pounding against his ribs.

            “I had Eds drive me somewhere out of town,” Richie tells her vaguely, unable to lift his head, taking a bite of his cereal to give him something to do. His bowl is nearly empty and he dreads the moment his distraction is gone.

            “Does it have something to do with those bandages?” she asks next. Instead of answering, he holds out one of his wrists and starts pulling back the bandage, the ripping sound makes his mother look at him for the first time. She catches sight of the slightly irritated lit match etched into his skin and her carefully passive expression scrunches up with distaste. Richie can see the argument brewing. “Mom, it’s not a big d-.”

            “How much of your birthday money did you _waste_ on those?” she interrupts, pushing her chair back roughly, causing a horrible screeching noise, and glaring at him. “ _When_ are you going to grow up, Richard?” Richie’s throat begins to feel tight in response to the harsh tone and his eyes sting, he wants to keep his head down and just take the verbal lashing like he used to, but he forces himself to speak, even if he can’t quite meet her eyes.

            “It’s _my_ money and it’s what I wanted,” he argues weakly.

            “How are you ever going to get a good job covered in that _garbage_?” She says, effectively ignoring him, pushing herself to her feet. Her words sting but Richie just scoffs and can’t help rolling his eyes.

            “No one in my line of work is going to give a fuck about some tattoos!” Richie snaps.

            “Oh, your ‘ _line of work_ ’?” she asks sarcastically, drawing quotation marks in the air with her fingers, “Telling jokes and messing around is _not a real job_ , _Richard_!”

            “And why is what you want more _real_ than what I want!?” Richie yells, dropping his bowl on the counter with a bang. His mother crosses her arms.

            “Don’t talk to me like that!” she scolds him, “Your father and I work our asses off and you’re throwing it all away for some bullshit _fantasy_!”

            “Oh, so I’d be better off like _you_?” Richie hisses coldly, “Miserable and stuck in some dead end job every day? I’d rather be fucking **_dead_**.” He watches her face pale and her anger fall away, stricken, and under his harsh rage, Richie feels guilt. She takes a deep shuddering breath, face carefully blank, and suddenly turns and heads for the door. She grabs her purse and snatches up her keys before heading out the door and slamming it loudly behind her without another word.

            He listens to his mother’s beat up old station wagon struggle to life and pull out of the drive way. He turns around and grips the edge of the counter and screams out his frustration. It echoes back at him and suffocates him. Richie harshly dumps his pink tinged milk and slams the plate into the sink. He grabs the dishes left behind by his parents and one of the plates crack when it lands in the sink with a loud crash.

            He seethes, filled with aggressive energy that he just can’t get rid of. He looks over at the green landline attached to the wall, connected by a long curly wire that nearly brushes the floor. He pushes away from the counter and walks over to it with purpose. He roughly pulls it out of its socket and punches in Beverly’s house number, listening to the familiar musical tones with each number. Before he even hears Beverly’s sweet voice greet him with a soft, “Hello?” he knows he’s made a mistake.

            He lets loose his misguided rage on her, yelling at her about Eddie and keeping secrets. When he slams the phone roughly, hanging up on her, he hopes to feel some relief but finds he only feels tremendous guilt. He heads for the stairs, rushing up them. He throws on some ripped jeans and an inappropriate graphic T of two cartoony weed plants sitting on a couch with blood shot eyes that are passing a joint. He tugs on his favorite sneakers with the bright pink laces and heads for the door. Every second in this house makes the walls feel like they’re moving in on him, closer and closer. He at least has the wherewithal to lock his front door before he’s on his bike and bolting down the street.

            He doesn’t even have to think about it, his muscle memory taking him to the Denbrough residence while his brain is stuffed with his own overlapping screaming thoughts, overwhelming him. He goes around the side of the house and spots Silver resting against the outside wall and rests his own bike next to it. He opens the small gate in the fence that surrounds the home and enters the backyard. He circles the one story home until he finds Bill’s bedroom window. The curtains are drawn and he carefully knocks his fist against the glass.

            There’s no response, so Richie knocks a little harder, feeling abruptly frantic and desolate at the mere idea that Bill might not be home. But then suddenly the curtains are being pulled aside and relief floods him when Bill’s familiar flaming red hair are in his field of vision. He gives a smile that feels too big and too tight.

            “Richie?” Bill’s muffled voice asks in confusion. Bill immediately opens the window, concern written all over his face.

            “Heya, sweet cheeks,” Richie says back and plants his foot on the large rock that he’d dragged to the spot below the window more than a year ago for occasions like this, he grabs the window sill, and hefts himself over the ledge with some help from Bill. It’s not very graceful and nearly ends up with Richie sprawled out on Bill’s floor, but luckily his friend grabs him before he can go down.

            Richie straightens and exaggeratedly fixes his clothes, his movements animated and comical, but Bill doesn't laugh or relax. Bill’s eyes flick over Richie’s face carefully. Bill’s gaze is piercing and Richie’s forced smile slackens slightly. He can feel his throat tightening up. It’s why he came here, Bill’s deep understanding and knowledge of what Richie needs, but he’s no less frightened by his own vulnerability.

            “R-Ruh-Richie,” Bill says quietly, reaching forward to place his palm on the side of Richie’s throat. Richie feels more guilt added to the weight in his gut when Bill stutters, feeling like a fucking asshole for making his friend worry just because he’s a fucking idiot. The muscles in his chin contract without his control and tears pool in his eyes. Richie roughly bites down on his bottom lip to get it under control, but it doesn't work and there are fat tears sliding down his face. Bill moves in quickly and wraps Richie in his arms, effectively cocooning Richie from the world, despite being slightly shorter.

            Richie releases his lip in a harsh gasp that chokes off in a sob. Bill holds Richie’s shaking form for a moment, digging his fingers into Richie’s curls and holding him to Bill’s shoulder.

            “I've got you,” Bill tells him and presses a kiss to Richie’s temple. Richie lets out another horrible sob and Bill carefully guides him to his bed. It’s a tight fit since Bill’s small room is only able to comfortably fit a twin, but Richie has no intention of having any space between them anyways, tucking himself between the wall and Bill’s body. Richie tangles his legs with Bill’s and Bill curls around Richie, wrapping his arms around Richie’s back while Richie buries his face in Bill’s shirt, making a small damp spot where his tears are soaking into the fabric. The familiar scent of his oldest friend soothes the wild animal in his chest and his skin fits him a little better, but the guilt is still turning his stomach.

            Bill is gently stroking Richie’s hair, curving his hand on the down stroke to cup Richie’s cheek. Richie sighs and leans into it, sniffling. Bill curves himself in a little tighter, pressing his nose to Richie’s scalp.

            “Rich, what happened?” Bill asks quietly. Richie fists the back of Bill’s shirt and presses his face into Bill’s chest until his glasses press painfully into the bridge of his nose.

            “Bill,” Richie whimpers, “I’m such a fuck up.” Bill sighs heavily and it gives Richie the irrational idea that Bill is going to get fed up and send him away, but instead Bill’s grip gets tighter and he forces Richie’s head up so Bill can look down into his eyes. Bill’s expression is concerned but his eyes are hard.

            “Richie,” he says, a command without needing to voice the request. Richie can’t say no to Bill.

            “My mom,” Richie starts, swallowing thickly around the lump in his throat, “We got in a big fight and I… I said something shitty.” Richie’s hand sneaks into the collar of his own shirt and begins picking at a zit on his back that’s long since become a horrible scab. Bill reaches up and drags Richie’s hand away, revealing a small amount of red under his finger nail.  
            “Stan and Mike would kill you,” Bill comments quietly, frowning at Richie. Bills eyes linger on the bandages on Richie’s wrist with deep concern and fear, but he doesn’t comment, just laces his fingers with Richie’s until they’re palm to palm and squeezes. Richie squeezes back and takes a shuddering breath. He tells Bill what happened with his mother and then with Beverly, carefully avoiding telling him about what Eddie revealed to him the night before.

            “Fuck,” Richie croaks, yanking his hand from Bill’s and covers his face, his throat growing tight with guilt again. “ _Fuck_ , Big Bill.”

            “Rich,” Bill says, “Richie, stop.”

            “Bill, she looked so fucking devastated and then I… God, I let it out on Bev,” Richie laments, “She doesn't deserve that shit… I don’t want to be like… like….” Bill sits up, leaving Richie’s side cold. Bill settles into a sitting position beside Richie and pulls Richie up.

            “You’re _nothing_ like him,” Bill states through gritted teeth, “ _Richie_ , fucking **look** at me.” He grabs Richie’s arms and yanks his hands from his face, revealing a red puffy cheeks and watery eyes. “Beverly would beat your ass for even suggesting that sh-sh-shit,” Bill tells him, and Richie knows that, he does, but he also knows Beverly deserves better than his bullshit. Richie doesn't deny or agree, just stares into Bill’s familiar blue eyes. “Say it.” When Richie doesn't speak, Bill cradles Richie’s face in his hands, “Say it.”

            “I’m not like him,” Richie replies, “I’m _not_ like him.” Bill’s thumb glides over Richie’s chin gently, grazing Richie’s bottom lip, sending Richie’s heart racing. He sees Bill’s eyes flick down to his lips for a moment but Bill keeps his head on straight and pulls away, while Richie wants nothing more than to lean in and taste.

            “You gotta apologize, Rich,” Bill tells him firmly, “To both of them.” Richie grimaces at the prospect. Bill reaches over and grabs Richie by the top of the head and forces him to nod his head, then grabs Richie’s chin. “Yes, Big Bill, you know best,” he says, deepening his voice in a poor imitation of Richie and moves Richie’s mouth up and down along with his words. Richie laughs and smacks Bill’s hands away.

            “Stop, asshole,” Richie grumbles then launches himself at Bill, wrapping his arms around Bill’s middle and tackling him to the bed. Bill yelps and laughs, smacking at Richie’s shoulder. Richie ignores his squirming and roughly shoves his face into Bill’s stomach, making Bill gasp and cough through his laughter. Richie nuzzles his face into Bill’s abdomen, his glasses digging into his face. Bill’s laughter dies down and he buries his fingers into Richie’s curls.

            Richie tilts his head up, letting his chin rest on Bill’s stomach, looking up at Bill with a soft smile. Bill smiles back at him, scratching Richie’s scalp gently. Richie’s heart jumps pleasantly and he wants nothing more than to drag himself up Bill’s body and kiss him breathless, but it’s not his move to make and he knows it. If it were, the group dynamic would be a very different creature.

            “What’s with the b-buh-bandages?” Bill tries to feign nonchalance, but his stutter gives him away. Richie glances down at his wrist, his new ink is throbbing lightly from his activities but it’s becoming easier to ignore. He realizes with a jolt what it must look like to Bill.

            “It’s nothing like that, Big Bill,” Richie promises, sitting up, and straddling Bill’s legs to reveal the different bandages on his body, “I’ll show ‘em when we’re all together.” Bill looks considerably more relaxed with reassurance that his friend isn't hurting himself and sits up, placing his hands on Richie’s waist, the skin beneath Bill’s hands grow hot, and now with all of the anxiety draining from his body and Bill under him and in his space, he can feel his self-control beginning to fray.

            Richie reaches up and rests his palm on the back of Bill’s neck, fingering the short red hairs there. He expects Bill to break the tension like he usually would, with kind yet firm rejection, and Richie using jokes to cover his genuine hurt. Instead, Bill sighs quietly and leans into the touch, stroking his hands up and down Richie’s sides in a way that has goosebumps racing up along his skin. Before Richie even realizes it, he’s scooted up Bill’s legs until he’s hovering over Bill’s lap and they’re nearly chest to chest.

            It’s a position they wouldn't wanna be caught in, but in that moment, nothing else exists except Bill’s baby blues. Fuck, these assholes have made him so cheesy. He’s towering over Bill, looking down at him, but he feels safe and protected when Bill loosely hooks his arms around Richie’s waist and he decides to give his screaming calves a break and properly settles on Bill’s lap. And _fuck_ , they’re so close, and Richie just wants to _grind_ and feel Bill get hard under him, but instead he tortures himself with focusing in on Bill’s lips. He slides his hands to Bill’s neck, cupping the sides with his large palms, and the pulse jumping under his thumb is the only give away that he’s not the only one feeling the sparks that are crackling in the air between them.

            Richie’s hands slide up to cup Bill’s face and lets his forehead fall against Bill’s with a sigh. Bill’s eyes go half lidded and he gently rubs the tip of his nose against Richie’s in an Eskimo kiss that makes Richie’s heart flutter. He chuckles, it’s unexpectedly husky, and he’s sure he doesn't imagine the shiver that erupts under his fingers. “Oh, Billy boy,” Richie sighs. The space between them is shrinking, just a little more and he’ll get to _taste_.

            Then they hear the front door close. They jerk apart and when they look at where the bedroom door is still wide open, they watch Sharon Denbrough walk passed without so much as a glance inside, unaware or unconcerned with the compromising position her son is in. Looking for all intents and purposes like a ghost. Richie watches Bill’s expression shutter. No matter what Bill says, Richie knows that even after all these years it still hurts Bill to know the only parent left in his life treats him like he’s invisible. Richie crawls off Bill’s lap and sits next to him on the bed, watching Bill’s profile, while Bill avoids meeting Richie’s eyes.

            “Y’know Bill,” Richie says, drawing Bill’s attention, “When we get out of this shithole town, we should really get a place with double doors.” Bill finally looks at Richie, his sad blank expression replaced with pure confusion. “If we don’t, my dick might not get passed the threshold,” he explains with a filthy grin and an obnoxious grab at his own crotch.

            Bill fails to hide the laugh this draws from him. “You sure it’s not your fat head you should be worried about?”

            Richie throws his hands up looking positively delighted, “Billiam gets off a good one!” Richie cries out. He jumps off the bed and abruptly scoops Bill up, a go to move of his. Bill yelps in fear. Richie throws Bill back onto the bed with a bounce and hops on top of him. He grabs Bill by the shoulders and roughly shakes him, jolting Bill’s brain around in his skull, while Bill swats at Richie and his lurching laughter fills the room.

            “B-Buh-Beep B-Buh-Beep, R-Ruh-Richie,” Bill gets out through the laughter and Richie’s shaking. Richie throws his head back and cackles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can Y'all say "unintentional parallels that somehow totally work out"? Probs not it's kind of a mouthful but that's what happened (and no I don't mean between the moms).
> 
> I've been trying to stick to tagging ships when there's actual romantic stuff between them in the fic, but I think the moment was unambiguous enough to warrant a tag for bichie *shrug*
> 
> We touched on some more parent stuff and get a lil bit of Bichie! Yeah!! I really hope you enjoyed it! Please leave a comment, and a kudos, and maybe bookmark it if you wanna see when I update!


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